


The Wanting Comes in Waves

by SaraFantastic92



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Denethor is homophobic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gay yearning, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Major character death late in the fic, Masturbation, Physical hurt/comfort, fellows is it gay to yearn, sir that's my emotional support hobbit, smut in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25769968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraFantastic92/pseuds/SaraFantastic92
Summary: Boromir didn't mean to fall in love with the one man who could destabilize his entire country. But Aragorn was there, smiling, waiting, brooding. It wasn't fair, but the Steward's Son was no stranger to life's unfairness. Boromir vowed he would do what was right for his city and his people, even as his world comes crashing down. He'll find a way to navigate his father's demands, the needs of Minas Tirith, and the desires of his heart, even if it kills him.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just have complex feelings about your boy Boromir that leads to writing Broromir/Aragron fic in the Year of our Lord 2020. I'm nothing if I'm not a gay mess, so enjoy this canon-compliant fic that's just a pile of gay longing and sadness.  
> Mature themes are present throughout, but smut chapter(s) will have warnings in the chapter notes at the beginning of the chapter. The poem in this chapter is Jolkien Rolkien Rolkien Tolkien's - poetry is my archenemy. Thanks for reading!

Boromir awoke in a sweat. It wasn’t the sweat of night terrors, dreams where the Nazguls’ shrieks pierced his heart and orcs brutalized the corpses of his friends in the heat of battle. It wasn’t the sweat of passion, either; nights spent in the embrace of lovers who whispered calming words as their beards scratched his face and chest where they kissed him. It was a sweat he had experienced only twice before – once at six when he dreamt of the fever that killed his mother and hundreds of others in the citadel before it had happened, and once again at 19 before the Nazguls began to enter in the battles between Gondor and Mordor.

Like the previous vision, the spirit of his mother came to him and sang a haunting dirge that stuck with him. The breath from her body was cold, and it hung in the air like white smoke, chilling him even as he perspired. The words she sang appeared like snakes that slithered and wrapped through the air, twisting around his naked arms and tightening like chains. As her voice faded, the words blazed with a blue light and burned into his flesh, burning cold like iced metal against damp skin. Boromir screamed as he woke, the words still reverberating around his skull, pounding in his ears like the drums of war.

Boromir lay in bed for a moment, catching his breath and wiping away the cold sweat pooling near his clavicle and between his ribs. He quickly donned a robe and opened his door, prepared to sprint towards his father’s chambers. Instead, he collided with a smaller form, nearly toppling Faramir.

One look at Faramir’s thin face told Boromir everything he needed to know. Born of the same bloodline, Faramir too had received a vision. With a nod, they both hurried towards their father’s chambers. Neither said anything to the other, not wanting to risk polluting or forgetting the message they had received.

A guard stood outside of their father’s room, almost asleep on his feet. He jerked to attention as the two steward-sons approached, opening the door for them to enter. Though Denethor did not like to be disturbed in his rest, he would want to hear this.

As their father rose and dressed, still Faramir and Boromir did not speak to each other. They would wait until their Father’s council – what remained of it at least – was assembled with a scribe to dictate the message.

After a half hour of hurried waiting, the council was assembled. Boromir left the hall while Faramir recited the message, and then he switched places with his brother to speak what he remembered. His arms ached with cold as he delivered the message the words seeming to burn sigils into his skin. Once he finished, the scribe compared the two narrations, surprised that both men had given the same exact message.

> Seek for the Sword that was broken,  
> in Imladris it dwells  
> There shall be counsels taken,  
> Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
> There shall be shown a token,  
> That Doom is near at hand,  
> For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,  
> and the Halfling forth shall stand.

The words that had been bouncing around his head like a hare darting from burrow to burrow suddenly disappeared from his mind as soon as the scribe finished reading. This had happened on the other occasions as well – as soon as he told someone, the words disappeared like his mother’s cold breath dissipating in the warmth of the halls of the living.

Denethor, his eyes dark with thought, stroked his chin. “Isildur’s Bane in Imladris? It can’t be.” Denethor looked up as Faramir entered the room again, summoned by a tired running boy still rubbing sleep from his eyes.  
“My sons, what do you make of this?”

Boromir waited for Faramir to answer. Although he was the elder of the two, Faramir was far more well read. “Perhaps ‘halfling’ refers to a dwarf? You don’t think the dwarves have found Isildur’s ring?”

A few of the council members hissed as that token was mentioned, but Faramir ignored them. “But why would a dwarf hand over something so powerful to the elves, even to Elrond’s house? I know that he had shown kindness to Dwain’s line recently, but even that kindness would not be enough to warrant such a gift.”

Denethor ignored Faramir, turning to face Boromir. “My son, what are your thoughts on this?”

Boromir grimaced – their father’s jealous games had grown especially lurid in the wake of Osgiliath’s recent fall and recapture in the past weeks, and this barbed spat directed at Faramir was especially venomous.  
“I think someone trustworthy should be sent to Rivendell to see what comes of these counsels. I suggest we send Faramir.”

Denethor laughed, a hoarse, dismissive chortle that made Faramir’s ears burn with embarrassment and Boromir’s chest burn with defensive anger. “You think I would trust a man who so recently lost to us our sister-city, the key to holding Mordor’s attacks away from our doorstep, with finding our inheritance?”

The hot anger in Boromir’s chest flashed, spreading to his arms and his face, making him lose all ability to hold his tongue respectfully. “Your son was sent to his death on an impossible mission and instead kept his men alive to fight another day. Your son stood with me and gave me the courage to face the enemy. Knowing I had him fighting at my side gave us the strength to reclaim Osgiliath, nothing more.”

Faramir was blinking rapidly, and Boromir recognized the empty look that reflected the pit of sorrow that Faramir held inside. He also recognized that quiet strength that his brother possessed as Faramir raised a hand to quiet Boromir’s raised voice. “Peace brother. What father speaks is true – this is not a mission that should be trusted to me. You are the heir to the Steward’s throne and it is your duty to return to this city what Isildur claimed.”

Boromir hesitated and Denethor took his silence as agreement. “It’s settled, then. Boromir will leave out at first light for Rivendell. I know my son will not fail me.”

Several of the council members bowed and began leaving the candle-lit hall, taking smaller lights with them, dimming the hall. Denethor stood and pulled Boromir by his shoulders into a type of embrace.  
“Do not return without the ring, Boromir. The fate of Minas Tirith rests on this.” Drawing back from the hug, Denethor moved from a whisper to a normal volume. “I am proud of you, my son, and our city will rejoice at your success.”

Boromir grimaced but bowed deferentially. “I will do as you say, father.”

But Denethor was already shuffling back towards his chambers, growling for the running boy to carry a lamp to light the way. As the older man disappeared, carrying the last of the mobile lights with him, Boromir was left in the hall with Faramir, barely able to see from the dim light of the hall’s banked fire. A strong hand clamped onto his shoulder, stronger than Faramir appeared at a glance.

Boromir sighed. “One day he will see and appreciate you.”

Faramir laughed, but it was hollow, pitiful even. “Honestly it would probably be better for my health if he just forgot about me. But enough of that talk. You’re going to Imladris to see the elves. Maybe even Mithrandir will be there! Do you think he will recognize you?”

Boromir grunted and put an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “It really should be you who’s going. You probably already have a route planned for the fastest way to get to Rivendell.”

Faramir laughed again, and this time it sounded more like his old self, before their father’s pride turned to arrogance and his firmness turned to cruelty. “Well, we have to send you; if I went, every farmer’s daughter between here and the elf-haven wouldn’t be safe.”

“Ah, yes. Instead their brothers should look out; after all, who can resist the son of the Steward?” Boromir laughed, expecting Faramir to join him. Instead, Faramir paused, turning to look Boromir in the eye. It hit Boromir how tall his brother actually was now – not quite as tall as Boromir himself, but he was certainly taller than their father, and almost met Boromir eye to eye.

“ I hope you do meet some hearty men along the way. But this vision from mother wasn’t a call to reclaim our lost heritage. It was a warning. I feel it to my bones that this will not be an easy journey. From what I know of it, in the end, Isildur wasn’t swayed by the council of the wise, but instead gave in to the whispers of the ring. This is a dangerous thing, no mere token. I fear that if you bring it here, you will bring our destruction with it.”

Boromir’s grip tightened on Faramir’s shoulder as he spun his brother to face him. “What do you want me to do, Faramir? Father made it clear that if I did not bring the ring back with me, it would be better for me not to return at all. I can’t just abandon our city to the whims of a man who lives with the ghosts of the past. I cannot leave you here to hold the line against Mordor alone.”

The orange light of the smoldering embers didn’t hide the uncomfortable shift in Faramir’s posture. “I only know what I feel in my bones, brother. You must do as you see right, and I will hold the city safe until your return.”

Boromir recognized the timid placation in Faramir’s tone, the same tone he took when their father was in one of his moods. Faramir was a good man, and he did not deserve to live in fear of the angry outbursts of the men around him. He loosened his vice-like grip on his brother’s shoulder, and gave a gentle smile and nudge. “I know you will keep the city safe until well after my return, and I look forward to the feast you will throw in my honor. But more importantly, you will keep yourself safe until I return. If you suffer so much as a scratch, I will kick your ass.”

A genuine smile graced Faramir’s face, a rarity for all that Faramir pretended to be happy. “I will. And by the way, it will probably be faster this time of year to travel through the gap of Rohan; it’s not as straight a shot, but the roads are better and I hear that, due to all the time spent on horses, the men of Rohan have very firm asses.”

Boromir laughed, hugging his brother close. Faramir had discovered that Boromir preferred men almost as soon as Boromir did, but his support and kindness had given Boromir the courage to explore his desires and attractions instead of burying them. If it weren’t for Faramir, Boromir shuddered to think who he would be. “I’ll be back in a few months time. If father becomes too much…”

“Just spare a moment to think of your poor suffering brother while enjoying the company of a ruggedly handsome horse man.”

Boromir laughed again, tousling Faramir’s hair. “We’ll pour out a libation for you, then.”

***

A day out from Rivendell and Boromir wasn’t thankful for his brother’s volunteering him for this cursed trip. A few days' ride out from Minas Tirith and Boromir lost his horse. He made it to the gap of Rohan on foot. The Rohirrim had welcomed him gladly, as Faramir had thought they might, and the king’s son, Theodred, was especially kind to Boromir, gifting him a new horse on the promise that Boromir would not lose this one as well.

It wasn’t the only thing Theodred had given Boromir, either. After leaving the king’s hall, Boromir found it easier to walk than ride, at least for a few days. He was grateful for the horse, and had promised himself to return the horse and the favors on the return journey home if there was time.

But ahead of him, there was still the long trek to Rivendell, not to mention needing to actually find the elven city. Any time he asked where Rivendell might actually be, no one could give him an answer. Or they gave him conflicting directions. Perhaps the ancient riddles to find the location was more accurate hundreds of years ago, but now no one knew the archaic references or where the elven city actually was. After traveling for over a hundred days – he had stopped counting after a while – Boromir had crested a hill and had seen with his own eyes the hidden elven city.

It was growing dark, though, and the trip down the mountain pass would be treacherous in the dark, so Boromir made camp in a sheltered crevice. “Last friendly house. How can it be friendly if no one can find it?”

His horse snorted in response as Boromir continued to rub the animal down. Theodred had shown Boromir the most efficient way to do so, before Boromir had taught him a few things while in the privacy of the royal stable in return. It had been the last time Boromir had laid with someone on this annoyance of a trip, and Boromir could feel the agitation under his skin. It always got like this after a while without.

To take his mind off the want, Boromir set about making camp more comfortable. He set to work skinning and cooking a squirrel he had caught in a snare, and then sweeping an area clean of debris to set out his bed roll, making sure to save some of the softer foliage for padding.

Boromir tossed and turned in his bed roll, trying to find the most comfortable position. His discomfort was not just from sleeping on the ground for so long. He would usually try to relieve himself – it helped him sleep better – but he wasn’t sure if he was being watched. To keep Rivendell safe, surely the elves kept a strong watch on its borders.

Boromir awoke with a start, scattering his makeshift bed as he leapt to his feet, knife in hand. No one was visible, but Boromir had the feeling of being watched. Damn these stealthy elves; if there was one watching him, he’d prefer to be approached and greeted instead of forever treading softly, afraid of what creature might be skulking in the shadow.

After a few minutes of scanning the area, Boromir convinced himself that he was imagining things. Living in the shadow of Mordor could do that to a person – make them see things that didn’t exist, make them think their allies were enemies and that shadows held only destruction. He took a few minutes to break down his campsite and saddle the horse. It would be too dangerous to ride down the mountain pass, but the horse should be safe enough to walk alongside him.

The further down the path Boromir got, the easier the trail became. Before the sun was overhead, Boromir was able to mount the horse lent to him and ride the rest of the way down. The mountain pass turned to grass, which turned to moss-covered stone, which turned to stone paths and archways and bridges.

Instead of looming, the elven city seemed to float in front of Boromir. Made of stone and timber, it still had an ethereal air about it. Faramir would be able to explain how the architecture created this effect, but Boromir was just mesmerized by it. He rode over a bridge into a walled courtyard, still not having seen a single other being.

Was he too late? Had he missed the council’s assembling? Had Rivendell been abandoned, no longer holding the wilds back and providing one last bit of shelter for the softer folk to the West? Boromir dismounted, still in awe of the beauty of the Elven city. It was unlike the beauty of Minas Tirith; it was dark and misty and felt safe in a way that his beloved city, strong though it was, hadn’t felt to him in decades.

Boromir’s fears of the abandoned state of the city were assuaged as he looked to his left and, in the distance, saw a handsome dark haired elven man speaking with a dark haired elven woman. The man leaned down to kiss the woman and Boromir turned his eyes away, feeling a bitter jealousy at the freedom that people unlike him felt to show affection where prying eyes could see.

It wasn’t that Boromir begrudged anyone in love. It just made him angry that his kisses always had to be stolen in secret. In dark halls and empty barn stalls, or in hidden tunnels and behind racks and racks of weapons and shields. One day he would kiss a man while standing on a bridge for all to see, just for the joy of it. Perhaps after bringing the ring back to Minas Tirith, his father would be so proud that he wouldn’t care who his son decided to bed with.

“Welcome Boromir, Steward’s son.” A firm voice greeted Boromir, drawing him from the well-trodden thought path. An elf with golden brown hair stood a few inches shorter than Boromir, but his presence commanded attention. Boromir quickly brushed his sweat-drenched hair back from his face and bowed respectfully.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion, but I heard news of the council gathering and sought to represent the race of men in the decisions made here.”

“I know why you have come, Steward’s son. My name is Glorfindel, and you are welcome in the House of Elrond. The council is still assembling, and we expect to begin tomorrow after the first meal of the day. Please, allow me to offer a place to rest for both you and your horse.”

Boromir bowed again, grateful for the kindness shown him. He held out the horse’s reins for Glorfindel to take, surprised that the elf with such a commanding presence was merely a footman of sorts.

Glorfindel raised a severe eyebrow, and Boromir realized his mistake immediately. This elf was probably not a footman, and would probably report his uncouth manners to Elrond directly. Boromir blushed furiously and bowed again. “If you will point me in the direction of a stable, I can house the beast myself.” He half meant the horse, half himself.

The elf caught Boromir’s second meaning and he must have found it amusing. Glorfindel’s laugh was almost melodic as it echoed off of the flowing water below and reverberated around the stone structures which seemed built to amplify and reflect beauty and sound. “No insult was taken, Steward’s son. I’m sure Mithrandir and Lord Elrond will wish to speak with you concerning the state of battle before the council assembles on the morrow. Perhaps we should find you a place to bathe first?”

Boromir bowed for a fourth time. If only they had sent Faramir, he would’ve been so much better at this. “A bath would be most welcome, Lord Glorfindel. Thank you.”

Taking the reins from Boromir and handing them off to a younger elf who appeared silently, Glorfindel’s laugh turned into an amused chuckle. “Come, Steward’s son, and welcome to the last friendly house. Lord Elrond extends his hospitality to you, and the bath is included for free.”

Although the talk of a bath had been a jest at Boromir’s expense, he could not complain at how wonderful it felt to wash the dirt of the road off. After scrubbing himself clean and luxuriating in the heated spring water, he slipped into his sleeping quarters and found his clothes had been cleaned and set out fresh for him, along with a tray of food and wine.

Gratefully, he slipped into clean clothes and ate at a table for the first time in several weeks. The walls of his room were covered in tapestries – Boromir guessed that if you lived forever, one would probably have lots of time to weave tapestries and rugs. After eating, Boromir decided to wander. He had been told that he was welcome to roam the halls, that someone would fetch him from wherever when Lord Elrond was ready to speak with him.

At first, the halls he walked through had large open arches letting in natural light and the foliage hiding and protecting Rivendell. The architecture reminded him of tales of Minas Tirith in her glory days – welcoming, open arches; looms and anvils being used were signs of lives being lived uninterrupted by battle and chaos; hospitality and friendship permeated the very atmosphere as he stumbled upon tables set with food for any wandering hungry guests.

He found a staircase that traveled down into a grotto of sorts. He could hear the musical tones of falling water as he stepped lightly down the stairs. He guessed that this room opened up on one of the waterfalls, and relied on the light passing through the clear falling water to bounce off the bluish-white stone walls. This cavern, though opening up to a waterfall, was quite dry and cool, and seemed to be a natural cavern, as if the elves had sung it into shape instead of shaping it with tools. He caught sight of a large series of paintings that depicted a battle he recognized.

Boromir froze, his breath catching in his lungs. He had known that Elven artists excelled in their crafts - living so long was a boon for mastering any art forms - but he had never expected it to be so vivid. He reached out to touch the mural. He had expected to feel raised paint under his fingers, such was the depth of the image of Isildur raising the broken sword, but it was smooth. Some sort of witchcraft was required to create this sort of masterpiece; Boromir felt his breath hitching in his chest. He wanted to weep, shout, and stand in reverent silence all at the same time.

He was jolted from his reverie by hearing a page turn. He turned, half expecting to see Faramir here, smiling at him over the pages of a dusty book. He was greeted by bright blue eyes under a dark brow, staring at him instead of the contents of the book the stranger was paging through.

Boromir started, and then recognized the stranger, though not by name. This was the figure he had seen on the bridge with the elven woman dressed in white; and what a nice figure he was at that. Boromir took a moment to take in the sharp jaw, lean figure, and the strong hands holding the book.

“You are no elf!” After the words escaped him, Boromir winced. He hadn’t meant to speak rudely, but the emotion of seeing a likeness of Isildur created by someone who probably knew him coupled with the surprise of seeing this man in the place he least expected to see another human had the effect of strongly mixed mead. He felt warm and his face felt tight. He knew he sounded and looked a fool.

The stranger dipped his head in a terse greeting. “Men of the South are oft welcomed here.”

He offered no other introduction or acknowledgement, though his clothes suggested he was a ranger or forest guard. Boromir wondered if he had imagined the stranger looking over his book at Boromir’s own figure. Probably. The first time Boromir had seen him, the man had been staring lovingly into the face of a beautiful woman after all.

Boromir knew that many of the men he felt himself drawn to would never find him as attractive as a feminine silhouette. It had stopped bothering him long ago, so why did he feel a lump in his throat right now?

“Who are you?” Again. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. Think before opening your damned mouth._ Boromir tried to rein in his emotions. Anger and frustration at himself was a heady and bitter potion when mixed with this lust and jealousy, and Boromir knew it would run away with him if he let it. Boromir felt tears stinging his eyes. Was he, the captain of the guard of the shining city, reduced to tears by an awkward encounter with another man like a maiden rejected at a harvest dance?

The corner of the stranger’s lip danced up quickly - in a smile or grimace Boromir could not ascertain. “I am a friend of Gandalf the Gray.”

Gandalf. A familiar name. Boromir grabbed onto the familiar detail to center himself in the whirl of emotion that was trying to tear him limb from limb. He took a breath to steady himself, to center himself. He had assumed he would be the higher ranking individual in this encounter, but if this man was a friend of Gandalf by name, he might have a rank that rivaled Boromir’s own. He needed to balance the conversation, offer the individual an opportunity to show who was in the higher standing here.

“Then we come here with a similar purpose… friend.” He offered the last word out gentle, hesitantly. He hated himself. A skilled warrior, reduced to quaking and begging like a common street dog. By what? A bright pair of eyes and fitted pants?

He needed to distract himself, move away from this situation. He could feel himself looking pleadingly at the stranger, pleading for he knew not what. The stranger looked over his book but continued to turn the page, pretending to read. He was watching Boromir, but as what? An opportunity? A threat?

Looking around desperately for a way out, Boromir caught sight of a blade, displayed on a shroud held by a delicately carved statue. The blade was familiar in design, but shattered into several pieces. He glanced between the mural of Isildur and the blade once more, and the pieces fitted into place.

“The shards of Narsil.” His voice was breathy, not just because of his proximity to the blade that first defeated Sauron. He reached out to pick up the hilt, careful not to disturb the other remnants.

“This is the blade that cut the ring from Sauron’s hand.” He wasn’t explaining this to the stranger; the man was obviously well-read. It was a mantra, sacred and quiet. Boromir ran his finger along the edge of the blade, and jumped when he felt the blade slice into his finger.

“It’s still sharp!” He exclaimed, looking at the stranger. The man looked familiar. Boromir glanced between the mural and the stranger. There was an uncanny likeness between the two men. Not only in looks, but also in bearing. Boromir felt his stomach turn, bitter and uneasy. This man was hiding something. The sacred mood was broken.

“It’s no more than a broken heirloom.” Boromir bit back bile. He dropped the blade and ran.

Boromir was not himself since leaving Rohan. Since leaving Gondor. Boromir stumbled back to his room like a drunk, ignoring the elves who faded out of the woodwork to offer assistance. He could hear them laughing at him, thinking him drunk on elven wine. It wasn’t wine. There was something wrong here. He had thought the atmosphere here was peaceful. He thought it was untouched by Sauron, by death. Now he recognized this peace. It’s the kind you find in the hallowed halls of your ancestors. A place where all that exists are forgotten memories, suffocating you and drowning out all other sound.

This was a cursed place. A place that death never touched, but also never left. He couldn’t stay here long.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir attends the Council of Elrond.

Boromir started in his seat. His rest had been uneasy last night; the air had been too still, too quiet, to sleep peacefully. He had woken several times to pace the room, looking out the large window over the bridges and small falls, still amazed he could not hear the running water. Once, he had seen the stranger and the elf lady, stealing out for a moment of uninterrupted affection. He had gone back to bed but had not slept any more after that. 

Across the way, the stranger sat, looking well rested but uneasy. Boromir was jealous of the way he sat: uneasy in countenance but lounging comfortably, long legs firmly planted, leaning forward on elbows, engaged in Lord Elrond’s introductions.

The tone shifted, and Boromir tore his gaze away from the dark stranger. A small boy, no, one of those hobbits, was walking towards the center pedestal. The pillar was almost as tall as the hobbit, and he seemed shaky, nervous. Slowly, he deposited a token on the pedestal, something golden that glinted in the sun. Recognition shot through Boromir.

“So it is true.”

Boromir hadn’t intended to stand, but found himself on his feet anyways. “In a dream, I saw the eastern sky grow dark, but in the West a pale light lingered.”

Boromir wasn’t controlling his body, but he felt himself step forward anyways, voice trembling with unshed tears. “A voice was crying: Your doom is near at hand. Isildur’s bane is found.”

Gandalf was also on his feet, and was chanting in some language that wasn’t Elvish, Dwarvish, or the common language shared by all. Boromir felt his vision tilt, felt his stomach drop into his boots. He almost wretched, and realized that his hand was almost touching the ring. It called to him, wanted him to pick it up, to prove to all here that he could hold it and not forsake his responsibility. But he couldn’t move; the air pulsated with the heavy, malicious energy of Gandalf’s words, pushing him back, giving him control of his own body. 

Boromir sat, surprised to find himself back at his chair, his knees weak and his hands trembling. Angry faces surrounded him in the circle, and Lord Elrond looked disappointed, his brow furrowed in pain. “Never before has that language been uttered by any tongue here in Imladris, Gandalf.”

“I will not apologize, for that tongue may yet be spoken in every corner of the east.” Gandalf grumbled, his voice softer and yet still gruffer than when it spoke the speech of Mordor. He glared at Boromir like he was an ignorant child who hadn’t read his lessons properly. It was a glare young Boromir had often felt, but never in front of so many people in positions of power. “The ring is completely evil.”

Boromir would not be condescended to and ignored. His father had sent him with a task, and he would not be scolded away like a child. “It is a gift for the foes of Mordor. Don’t you see, now in our greatest time of need, the ring has come forth. Long has my father kept your borders safe with the blood of my people.” 

Boromir felt his blood rising, could hear it pounding in his head with anger. It was not fair that so many of his allies, his friends, his lovers had died protecting these places where the largest violence present was the food that was cut and the trees that were pruned. Boromir was proud to make sacrifices to do what was right, but if there was another way, one where no one else needed to die, he would take it even if it damned his own soul. “Give the ring to Gondor. Let us use their own weapon against them.”

The dark stranger sat up, pulling his finger thoughtfully away from his top lip. “You can’t wield it. None of us can. It answers to Sauron alone.” 

A few people gasped at the name of Sauron, as if the situation that had been Bormir’s whole life was finally becoming real for them. The anger pounding in Boromir’s head made him want to vomit or pass out. He could feel his lungs inflating as he drew in air, but he felt no relief from the pressure in his chest.

This man, whoever he was, knew nothing of the strength Gondor cultivated, that it needed, to survive. Boromir felt his skin prickle. He could feel the bile in his throat turning to venomous words, but he didn’t care to stop himself. “And what would a mere ranger know of this matter?” 

One of the elves who wasn’t from Rivendell, a thin blonde fellow, stood. “This is no mere ranger.” Boromir tore his eyes away from the dark stranger and focused on the elf, ready to learn whatever familial ties this ranger possessed. “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance.”

Boromir felt his jaw go slack. Aragorn. The man with a stronger claim to Gondor’s throne than any other person alive. Surely he recognized the white tree crest emblazoned on all of Boromir’s clothing yesterday. Had he been mocking Boromir? Boromir gestured incredulously at the still seated figure. “This… this is Isildur’s heir?”

The elf, his voice still hot and angry though his physical appearance gained no sign of rage, glared back at Boromir. “And heir to the throne of Gondor.” 

Whoever this elf was, he knew about political machinations generally and Gondor’s political situation specifically. He was also a force to be reckoned with.

Finally, Aragorn spoke for himself, but it was in Elvish. Boromir damned both the ranger and himself for not paying as much attention to language studies as he should have. Faramir would have known what was happening. All Boromir could pick out was the elf’s name - Legolas. So the elf prince of Mirkwood was present and was friends with this ranger.

Legolas seemed to back down in compliance with Aragorn’s gentle hand gesture. Boromir returned to his seat - when had he stood again? - but muttered loud enough to be heard by all. “Gondor has no king.” He made eye contact with the ranger. “Gondor needs no king.”

Talk returned back to the situation at hand. People began debating what to do with the ring, though Aragorn stayed silent through the whole discussion. Did he have no thoughts on what should be done? How could such a man be heir to a throne as old as Gondor?

Many individuals suggested destroying the ring, and Boromir felt his stomach drop. His father would never stand for this, and Boromir probably wouldn’t be able to stand after his father learned he allowed this to happen. Before anyone else could stop him, a dwarf with elaborate braids in his beard stood and tried to shatter the ring with a handaxe. The axe head shattered instead. 

Elrond began to explain that the only way to destroy the ring was to throw it into Mordor’s mountain of fire. Elrond was one of the few people here who knew the terrain of Mordor, but he had not been there in hundreds of years and did not know the current state of the wasteland. Boromir could taste ash, could feel the heat of Mordor burning his skin, the air turning to acid in his lungs.

Boromir was surprised that no one interrupted or contradicted Elrond, but listened as if he was the only authority on the subject present. Which Boromir was. He had seen the Black gate. He knew what it was like there. 

“The very air you breathe is poisoned. You could not do this with ten thousand men. This is folly.” He wasn’t sure if he meant the suggestion of taking the ring into Mordor, or of destroying it at all. Both, he supposed. 

Legolas stood again. Boromir could tell he was itching for a fight, the way he kept grabbing his arm rests and casting wild glances between the dwarvish delegation and Boromir. “Have you heard nothing the council has said? The ring must be destroyed.” 

The well-groomed dwarf - Elrond had called him Gimli when he broke his fine axe - finally took the elf’s bait and jumped to his feet. “I suppose you think an elf is the one to do it, hm?” 

Boromir tried to draw attention back to the problem in the proposed plan and away from the racial tension that was escalating between Legolas and Gimli and their respective courtiers. “And what will you do when Sauron takes back the ring as soon as you enter Mordor? What will you do when we fail?”

They were not the only members on their feet yelling any more. The elvish delegation from Mirkwood was behind Legolas, staring down the dwarves who had joined Gimli. Gandalf had strode over and began arguing with Boromir, gesticulating wildly. Boromir spared a glance mid-argument; Aragon was still in his seat, finally looking uncomfortable. 

Gandalf was insinuating that Gondor’s mind was already defeated if they could only see victory as coming from the ring when he stopped, his eyes closed as if in pain. Boromir heard a small voice but could barely make out the words. 

“- ring to Mordor.” 

A moment later, he heard it more clearly. “I will take the ring to Mordor.”

The hobbit creature, barely at waist height to Boromir, was standing, his fists clenched determined at his sides. He looked afraid, but Boromir could tell he was resolute. The council was silent.

“I will take the ring to Mordor, though I do not know the way.”

Gandalf grimaced, but Boromir noted that his expression changed to a more pleasant visage as he turned to face the hobbit. “And I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins.”

Aragorn stood finally, and strode forward. He was taller than Boromir would have guessed, and stepped with confidence and grace. He swore an oath of fealty and Boromir was not surprised at how well-spoken Aragorn was. The bitter taste the other man’s words left in his mouth made him realize he wished the ranger wasn’t so well spoken.

The elf stepped forward next, and then the dwarf, although Boromir thought that was more a challenge to the elf than an actual desire to participate in this quest. 

This was not the outcome that Boromir had intended for this council, but if he could not persuade them to let Gondor use the ring as his father had commanded, he would at least see that the ring wasn’t immediately captured by Sauron’s spies.

And he wouldn’t be outspoken by a ranger, either. “You bear the fate of us all, little one. If it is indeed the will of the council, Gondor will see the ring destroyed.”

The rest of his speech was cut off as another hobbit, this one rounder but rougher looking bounded out from behind a pillar. This hobbit, Samwise, was joined by two others, all demanding to be allowed to travel with Frodo. 

Boromir did not want them to come. They were little, fragile, and not at all ready for battle. They reminded him of Faramir when he was young, particularly the last two hobbits. They were so eager to please, but would crumple under a single blow. Surely Elrond would see the wisdom in making them stay behind. 

But again Boromir’s opinion was not the reigning view. He scowled as Elrond named them a fellowship bound by a common purpose. This would surely not end well.

***

Before leaving, Lord Elrond gathered the fellowship to bless them on their journey. Boromir did not consider himself a superstitious man, but Elrond’s words, even when spoken in the common tongue, held a weight of mysticism behind them. He bound the fellowship together with gossamer words, promising them that they could turn back at any moment and none would hold it against them for leaving the fellowship of their own free will. 

It was like and unlike the visions he received from his mother - the same magical weight bound him, but instead of being chains that cut into his skin and burned him, they seemed to buoy him out of the despair he felt in his heart. They gave him hope that this was a legitimate way to bring peace to his land, although he knew in his heart this small delegation was doomed to failure.

Elrond gestured for them to leave, and Boromir turned to follow Frodo and Gandalf out, but was pushed aside by Gimli, muttering under his breath that he wouldn’t let an elf outpace him to leave an elven city. 

Boromir met Legolas’s eyes, a slight smile shared between them that didn’t mend the space between them, but at least threw some dirt in the gulf. It was a start. 

Throwing his shield over his shoulder, Boromir followed behind Gimli, hoping that buffering between the two would further endear Legolas to himself. Perhaps this mission would not have to be a total failure. If he could find ways to make ties with either the elven or dwarven princes, he could secure an ally in the fight against Mordor.

Boromir spared a glance back to make sure that the two boyish hobbits were following closely. He hadn’t meant to spy on yet another tender moment between Aragorn and the elven woman he now knew was Elrond’s only daughter, Arwen Undomiel, but he saw the distraught, tear-filled eyes that she was casting at the ranger. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as Aragorn looked uncomfortably between her and the fellowship, before bowing slightly to her and turning to follow. 

Quickly, Boromir dropped his gaze. Had something between them happened in the hour everyone was given to gather their belongings and send messages out to those who waited back home for them? That was not the expression of a lover sending her beloved off to joyous victory. It was the expression of one who had resigned herself to never seeing her beloved again. Boromir should know - he had ridden out with his men enough times to be able to recognize this expression. 

“Besides, Merry, we’ll definitely stop for lunch soon. Gandalf knows what timeclock our stomach run by, and he’ll be sure to stop for us."

Merry’s reply was a hushed whisper that Boromir couldn’t quite hear, but it brought a smile to his face. They were all marching off to their doom, and this small one was sure that the wizened Mithrandir would stop within an hour of leaving out to snatch a bite to eat. These hobbits had a lot to learn about life on the road to Mordor, and Boromir knew it would probably fall to him to teach them. 

He pulled out a small bag he had prepared of travel snacks: a handful of candied nuts and rolled oats along with a few dried grapes and hard cheese. Enough to keep your spirits up as you walked through the long shadows of the evening.

“Here, master hobbit. Maybe this will tide you over until we make camp for the evening.” He didn’t turn, just held the bag out to his side where the hobbits could see it. 

The thinner, younger one bounced forward, the tassels on his scarf dancing along with his movement. Boromir jerked the bag high into the air above the hobbit’s head before he could grab it. 

“Your name, master hobbit? It does not do to share food with a nameless friend.”

The hobbit’s face turned from angry surprise to jovial. “Get a load of this fellow, Merry. He thinks I’ll dance for my dinner!”

“You would, and you’d dance for less than that, Peregrin Took. Give him your name and stop bothering us with your prattle.”

The younger hobbit obliged, before jumping to try and snatch the bag away from Boromir’s grasp. “I’m Pippin. And who might you be?”

Boromir chuckled, bringing down his arm to hand over the small bag. “I’m Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor. I thought you would’ve gathered that from all the times Gandalf yelled at me during the council you were just spying on.”

Pippin had already opened the bag and was testing the strength of a rolled oat, not at all impressed with Boromir’s claim to nobledom. “Nah, I didn’t really follow what was happening there, and I just tune Gandalf out when he’s yelling. If I didn’t, I doubt I’d be able to hear anything anymore for all the times he’s blown steam in my ears.”

Boromir laughed, surprising himself. He could hear Gandalf ahead, muttering to himself about allowing Elrond to foist responsibility for a Tookling onto him. Perhaps there was more than meets the eye to all of these hobbits, especially if Gandalf spent enough time with them for Pippin to have such a laissez-faire attitude towards the wizard. 

“Well, Peregrin Took, I look forward to traveling with you.”

Pippin just nodded, looking into Boromir’s borrowed bag. “As you should.”

Smiling to himself, Boromir thought he could hear Gandalf swear in elvish from up ahead. At least it was to be an interesting trip.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir bonds with members of the fellowship. 
> 
> Non-explicit masturbation scene.

They had been traveling for only a few days, but already Merry and Pippin had attached themselves to Boromir. They assured him that it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that he was the only member of the fellowship who actively packed snacks for them to bribe away from him throughout the long marches of the day, but he wasn’t so sure. 

While Boromir was fairly certain at this point that Pippin knew what was happening, there were still moments when the young hobbit was… airheaded. And though Boromir found Pippin’s quips and pranks entertaining, he was hyper-aware of two things. One, the rest of the party seemed put on edge by these gaffs, their moods starting to drift from annoyed to angry. Two, if they, or anyone else, turned to violence against Pippin, or Merry for that matter, the hobbits wouldn’t stand a chance. 

The fourth night, while they were making camp, Boromir quietly picked up Pippin’s abandoned sword and pulled it half way out of the sheath. It was barely a short sword, and it wasn’t made of expensive materials, but it was clean and well made. It would hold true in a battle, if the person wielding it knew how to use a blade.

He felt the cold weight of an disapproving glance. Boromir casually glanced over his shoulder and saw Aragorn watching him, his gaze intense and scrutinizing. Boromir wanted to say something to lift the weight that had settled between them after their first encounter at Rivendell, but there wasn’t anything he could say that would change their circumstances. He would always be the son of a proud steward, and Aragorn would always be a threat to the safety of the people Boromir was bound to protect. 

“Hey, that’s mine!” Pippin snatched both the sword out of Boromir’s hands and Boromir from the dangerous thought-spiral he was about to descend into. 

“Forgive me, I was just checking the quality of the blade…” 

Boromir was cut off, confused, as Pippin drew the sword and then dropped it to the side without a care, tipping the sheath to drop several small nuts into his small, brown hand. As Pippin threw back the hidden snack, Boromir spluttered. “Wha- why do you have tree nuts hidden in your sheath?”

“Merry wouldn’t think to look there.”

Pippin turned to walk away, but Boromir grabbed his shoulder by reflex. “A warrior does not leave his blade in the dirt.” 

Pippin shrugged, trying to get out of Boromir’s grasp. “Eh. It’s not really my blade. Strider gave it to me. Besides, I’m only a hero in the romantic sense.”

Boromir had learned to let Pippin’s words wash over him like a water rushing over stone instead of getting bogged down in the details - if he thought too much about what Pippin was actually saying, he felt he would drown in confusion. “Still, Pippin, you should take care of this gifted blade. Perhaps your patron will want the blade back when the mission is over.”

“Strider doesn’t care. Do you, Strider?” Pippin’s voice rose with the question, bringing Aragorn into the discussion. Aragorn looked uneasy, but stepped closer. If he had heard any of the previous conversation, he did not show it. 

“Care about what?”

Pippin shrugged. “You don’t care what I do with that sword, do you? It’s too short for you to use anyways, right?”

Aragorn was close enough for Boromir to touch. “I do care, master hobbit. It is a dangerous weapon, not a mere toy to cast aside when it does not amuse you.”

Pippin’s mouth dropped as he took offense at Aragorn’s statement, perhaps at the implication that he was a child. Boromir rushed to intervene. Although he could be combative in nature, he didn’t dare bring any more tension between Aragorn and himself.

“I’m sure that Aragorn meant that this is a tool, not a gift of prestige. You must use it for its intended purpose or risk it failing you when combat arrives.” 

Boromir braced for a chilling glare from Aragorn, or a kick from Pippin. Of the two, he’d rather receive the physical violence. When nothing of the sort came, he squinted and glanced between the two. Pippin was looking thoughtfully up at Boromir, and Aragorn had stepped back, appeased for the moment. 

“Well, who’s gonna teach me then?”

“Teach you what?” Merry materialized beside Pippin, then sniffed Pippin’s empty sheath. He snatched it away, tipping it up. A few crumbs fell on his outstretched hand. “You hid tree nuts in your sword holder thing and didn’t share with me? You blaggard!” 

Pippin deftly picked up his sword, pointing it crookedly at Merry. “Master Boromir is going to teach me to use the sword to protect myself and my property from villainous rogues like you.”

“Oi!” Merry looked up at Boromir, feigning pain. “You were going to teach him but not me? Also, you think teaching him to use that is a good idea?”

Boromir glanced where Merry was gesturing only to find Pippin using the blade to try and pick between his teeth. He looked to Aragorn for support, but Aragorn held his hands up in a surrender pose and was… smiling. Smiling at Boromir. Confused, he smiled back, then turned back to two young hobbits. 

“Yes, Master Merry. I am going to teach you both to use the sword.” 

He deftly snatched the blade from Pippin, taking care not to cut his tender gums in the process. “It’s not a toothpick, Pippin.”

“That’s Mister Peregrin to you.” Pippin huffed under his breath before pulling out a small pocket knife and using that to pick a shell from between his teeth.

Boromir ignored him and turned to Aragorn to ask for his help, but Aragorn was already gone, walking over to kneel by the fire and whisper quietly with Legolas. 

The elf hated Boromir as well, he could sense it. When Aragorn laughed at something Legolas said, Boromir knew they were laughing at his expense. Boromir could feel the tension headache tightening it’s band around his head, and he felt his heart drop, time seeming to slow around him. 

“--omir. Boromir.” A small voice pulled him back to the present and he felt the band around his head snap, his heart jumping back into rhythm. 

“Yes, Merry?”

“You said you were going to teach us how to use the blade. So when are we going to start?”

Boromir glanced around. The tents were all set up, multiple fires were going, and dinner was being prepared by Sam and Gimli, who wouldn’t let anyone else help after last night’s incident. He sighed, and squared his shoulders, ready to inspect his squadron.

“Now, Merry. Buckle your swords.” 

The hobbits scrambled to quickly tie their swords to their belts, both eager for this new experience to brighten the monotony of the road. 

“Now what?” Pippin said, shoulder-checking Merry to insure that he would be the first finished.

Boromir waited a moment, and then smiled sternly. “First, you and Merry will clean this area of every stone and stick.” Boromir marched out a six-pace square.

When met with the expected groans, he turned to glare sternly, drawing upon his decades of experience as captain of the Citadel. “You mean to tell me that you want to turn your ankle or, worse, hurt your friend while learning these sacred sword forms passed down for generations through the Guards of the White City?” 

When the hobbits didn’t reply, Boromir rolled his eyes. “This handful of candied apple to the one who moves the most debris.” 

The hobbits exchanged glances before diving to the ground, scuffling for small pebbles and twigs. 

“And stack them nicely - we’ll need to put them back when finished so as not to leave a followable trail.” 

They didn’t blink twice at his request, both desperate for what was the last taste of home comforts that Boromir had brought from Rivendell. Even he was surprised with how quickly they combed the ground, removing all traces of wilderness from the area. And their hasty ground-crawling drew the gazes of the rest of the fellowship. Boromir could feel Gandalf’s scrutinizing glare, but he was done giving in to the whims of old men.

“Right men. Stand to attention.” 

Merry and Pippin snapped bolt upright, and Boromir split the apple chunks between them, giving more to Merry, who had moved the most. Merry objected, but Boromir knew that without continuous rewards, Pippin would lose interest quickly.

He showed them how to draw their swords smoothly, and to hold the blades correctly. Dinner was called ready, but Boromir insisted they learn how to clean their blades before they could leave the square. 

Satisfied that they had established the basics, he released them to eat and sleep in peace. While they bickered over what was left of dinner, he began to scatter the stones and sticks back around, taking care to make it look irregular and wild. 

He heard the soft thump of sticks and stones being scattered behind him, and turned to praise Merry for his dedication. He was surprised to see it was Aragorn, who smiled wryly at him. 

Boromir dropped a stone which landed squarely on his foot, but didn’t say anything, his mouth slightly agape with surprise. 

“You didn’t need to have them clear the area - there weren’t really any stones large enough for them to turn an ankle on, you know.”

Boromir sputtered for a moment, but then turned back to scattering the sticks among the foliage. “I did know. I wanted to see what their attention to detail was like. To know if they were disciplined enough to retain what I was showing them.”

Boromir felt Aragorn at his arm. “Ah, I see. And did they pass muster, Steward’s-son?” 

Boromir felt his face growing hot. He turned away so Aragorn could not see. “Yes, I think they will learn quickly.”

He jumped at the hoarse, barking laugh Aragorn let out. 

“I hope so. I bet Legolas my good boot laces that you would have them ready to spar within the week.”

“Ah.” Boromir didn’t know what to say in response. Then it clicked and he spun to face Aragorn. “Wait. The elf thinks it will take longer than a week for me to teach them the basic stances and foot positions?”

Aragorn laughed again, and the tension Boromir was holding in his chest melted as he watched the dark man hold his stomach and lean forward with laughter. 

“He said, and I am quoting him, ‘I’d be surprised if he could teach them which end of the blade is meant for enemies. The only thing they know how to do is eat and snore.’”

“Oh.” He chuckled a little himself. “That is acceptable.”

The ranger’s eyes glinted in the growing darkness, seeming to glow with an internal fire, and Boromir felt himself drawn to the flame like a moth. “Did you think we laughed at you, o Captain of the Citadel?”

Boromir turned back to throwing out the last of the gathered items. “I care not what you laugh about.” He tried to make it sound light and teasing, but he could taste the bitterness in his mouth.

He felt Aragorn stiffen, the friendly air between them once again tense. “We saved you a plate. You should eat before your hobbits get wind of the leftovers.”

 _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._ This mantra pounded in Boromir’s head as he tried to down the fry up that Sam had poured his heart into. He picked around the mushrooms, putting them aside as a bribe for Merry and Pippin for the next evening’s lessons.

As he cleaned his dish using a handful of dry sand, he chastised himself. He wasn’t here to make alliances or train hobbits how to use a sword. He was here to make sure that this ring of power, the only thing his father believed would save them, fell into the right hands.

Faramir would know how to handle this group. He would talk easily with Gandalf and Legolas. He would listen to Gimli speak about the types of arches used in Dwarvish architecture and wouldn’t find himself dosing on his feet. He would have Aragorn laughing easily, and not as his own expense. 

Boromir bedded down for the night, thinking about the sorts of things Faramir might say to make Aragorn laugh. Those thoughts quickly turned into what Boromir wished he could say, to see if the fire in the ranger’s eyes would grow or dim. The poetry he could recite about the sharp lines of his jaw, the dangerous glint in his eyes, the way his hands casually rested on his sword hilt while walking, or firmly held his plate while he leaned back and listened to Mithradil explain their path once more to the hobbits, or how he softly cradled his pipe as he listened to Gimli and Legolas squabble about the proper density of wood for a smokeless fire. 

It had only been four days, but already Boromir felt intimately acquainted with Aragorn’s mannerisms - from a distance. Average habits felt mystical, sacred when the ranger performed them. The way his eyebrows creased with worry when he and Gandalf would have whispered conversations, or the way his lips quirked up when Legolas would swear at the dwarf under his breath, or the way he would gently speak to the packhorse while helping Sam brush him down in the evening. These small acts didn’t change the fact that Aragorn had the power to ruin Minas Tirith’s trust in its leaders, or that he could displace Denethor in a moment’s time. But they did make Boromir’s heart ache with what he wished could be. 

Boromir wished he could take care of his want here, but Mithrandir slept with his eyes open, and Boromir wasn’t even sure if Legolas could sleep. The last thing he wanted was to give the elf prince another reason to laugh at him. Boromir tried listing his ancestors as far back as his lineage was recorded to calm himself down, but he could still hear Aragorn singing softly to himself as he kept watch over the dying embers of the fire. 

Not finding relief by any other means, he quietly stood, careful not to disturb any of the sleeping members of the fellowship, nodded curtly to Aragorn in what he hoped signified that he was stepping away for just a moment, and then stole quietly into the wilderness.

It wasn’t exactly forest persay, but there was enough tree coverage that he felt comfortable walking for a few minutes to relieve himself.

He knew he had to be quick about it, or it would draw Aragorn’s suspicions, and the last thing he wanted was for the ranger to find him in the final throes of passion with his name on Boromir’s lips. 

It only took a few minutes, but Boromir felt the warmth rush through his body as he came, his back arching slightly, hissing quietly to keep from disturbing anyone or anything that happened to be in the area. He cleaned himself quickly, using a bit of water from his canteen to wash the evidence from his hands. 

He had just finished adjusting his pants when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, drawing a knife in case it wasn’t one of his traveling companions. 

“Who’s there?” He called softly, surprised at how hoarse his voice was.

“Peace, friend. It’s just me.” It was Legolas, the damned elf. 

Boromir sheathed his knife, not making eye contact with the elf, who seemed amused about something. 

“Aragorn sent me to check on you - he said you had stepped away a while ago.”

Boromir grunted, walking towards the elf. “Can a man not take care of his own business, or do you not trust me still, Princeling?”

“I do not trust anyone without reason, Son of the Steward.”

“Boromir.”

“Hm?” The elf’s eyes twinkled with mischief in the small amount of starlight in the cloudy night sky. 

“My name is Boromir. I’m more than the son of the man who protects the throne of Gondor.” Boromir surprised himself with that. Up until this moment, being a Steward’s son had been a responsibility he had been proud to carry the weight of. 

Legolas fell in stride with him, keeping pace. “What more is there to you, Steward’s son? Who are you without your white city to prop you up?”

“Interesting words to come from the Prince of Mirkwood. Did you come on this journey at your father’s bidding, or did some other will sway you here?”

Legolas laughed, and though it carried the melody of the elves, it seemed dull and hollow. “My father cares not for the woes of the world. He is happy with his dark, quiet kingdom. He does not think of the evil that will inhabit our forest should the threat of Mordor seep into our borders.”

Boromir considered the lithe creature walking beside him, their steps illuminated only by the stars in the sky. “I promise with all the breath in my body, while my line stands, Mordor will not spread past the borders of Gondor.” 

He expected more hollow laughter from his companion, but was surprised to find that now, Legolas was studying him. By this point, they had made it back to their camp, the embers of the fires welcoming them back. Legolas answered him back, but his eyes were on Aragorn, which made Boromir blush for some reason. “I worry that you men have more fire and life in you than all my brethren combined. Maybe that is why you burn out so quickly.” 

Boromir laughed, uncertain if the concern in Legolas’s voice was for him or Aragorn. Or both? It didn’t matter. “This talk is too deep for so late. I bid you goodnight, elf prince.”

“Fair dreams to you as well, Boromir.” 

As Boromir laid down, he didn’t know how to feel. Perhaps the elf was a worthy ally after all. He could hear the elf whispering to Aragorn as he drifted off, but he had fully spent himself on this day and was too tired to strain to hear whatever Aragorn’s response was. He drifted off into unconsciousness, a contented smile playing on his lips for the first time in a while.

***

After their whispered conversation, Boromir felt a growing esteem build between him and the elf prince. Legolas no longer laughed behind his back after making eye contact, and Boromir knew that, should a schism arise between the dwarf and the elf, he’d side with Legolas no matter how petty the argument.

Legolas even began foraging as they walked along with Boromir so he’d have something to keep the hobbit’s attention during their sparring lessons in the evening. Boromir was proud of their progress, and it had nothing to do with the warm smile Aragorn gave when Legolas had to pay up for losing the bet on the third sparring lesson. The elf had grumbled about turning over his best hair ties, but begrudgingly did so, pretending to ignore the chuffing laughter of the dwarf as he rebraided his hair that evening. 

On their eighth day of travel, they camped a bit early as Gandalf had intimated they would not find another suitable camping spot for several hours walk, and that the area was not safe to travel in after dark. 

“Two. One. Five.” Boromir called out the sword positions he had taught the hobbits, and Merry and Pippin responded quickly and correctly, their swords clanging proudly as they rebuffed him. 

“Very good,” he observed.

Aragorn, a pipe between his lips, called advice from outside the fencing square. “Move your feet. Keep it up.”

Boromir knew he was commenting on the hobbits’ movements, but he could feel himself heating up more than the exercise would warrant. If he had been home, drilling his soldiers, he would not feel the need to be so reckless. But here, the dangers of Mordor seemed distant and weak, and he needed to impress this ranger with how well he had trained the hobbits. “Faster.”

He began calling out the positions at a quicker speed, and the hobbits, confused, tried to match his pace, Pippin faltered first and the flat of Boromir’s blade crushed his fingers. Boromir pulled his blade back, and dropped it at his side, concern and fear guiding him. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

He leaned forward to look at Pippin’s injury, concern and fear seeming to freeze him in place, making his movements slow and painful. They had all received their fair share of cuts and bruises while training, but this was the first time that his carelessness had caused an injury.

Pippin was shaking his injured hand, and Merry had also dropped his blade, their chaotic energy no longer held in check by the promise of snacks and treats. Pippin lunged at Boromir with a speed that surprised him, and Merry followed, cackling madly. They were able to catch Boromir off guard and tackled him to the ground where he would no longer have the height advantage. 

Pippin laid his full weight on Boromir’s right arm, kicking at Boromir’s head with his wide, furry foot. “Get him! Hold him down Merry!” Merry was sitting on Boromir’s chest, rustling through his pockets, looking for the gods knew what. Boromir, half sitting, straining against the weight of the two hobbits, couldn’t help but laugh. He looked to Aragorn for help; he felt like a turtle stuck on it’s back, and he couldn’t think of another way out of this until the hobbits tired.

Aragorn laughed with him, a light, hearty laugh that echoed through the shrubland around them. Boromir felt his heart swell and sank. He could see Aragorn sitting on the throne of Minas Tirith, but the courtroom didn’t feel stale and dank, it felt warm, a fresh breeze washing over him. Aragorn would smile down on Boromir, and he would be proud to serve such a king. 

He could feel the violent tumble of his thoughts carrying him where he did not want to go. He could feel Aragorn’s hot breath on his neck as they stole away from meetings of state. They would also love each other loudly, and all would know that they ruled together as of one mind, soul, and body. They would have children who would unite the lines of Steward and King. Their children would be dark of hair and proud of features, and they would wrestle and laugh and feast together, bringing life back to the halls that had been dead for so long. 

The vision felt like a memory, like there was real weight to it, crushing Boromir’s heart and lungs, making his ears ring. He thought he might throw up if the pressure wasn’t keeping him on his back.

Pippin kicked Boromir in the face, and he shook his head, trying to loosen the thoughts from his mind before it sunk roots in to stay. He had never before let his daydreams move this far this fast. Like most, he had dreamed of someone to love, to fight beside and hold at night, to fall back on when the stench and weight and heat of Mordor grew too much. 

But he never let himself think about being able to love someone so publicly. It had always been something private, something he had to keep secret. The thought of being able to love someone, and to have that affection returned for all to see, made Boromir’s guts twist. Adding the image of children crushed him. He felt like one of the bodies pulled from the wreckage of Osgiliath, the stone arches and walls flattening and mangling him. He couldn’t breath, couldn’t think. And still Aragorn smiled at him. 

It felt like an eternity, but he knew it had just been a few seconds. Aragorn pulled the pipe from between his teeth and set it gently on the rock, standing in one fluid motion. He stepped towards the hobbits, hands on his waist, and Boromir’s lungs burned. 

Aragorn looked down on all of them sternly. “Gentlemen, that’s enough!”

Pippin glanced at Merry, who rolled his eyes, and, as though they had practiced, each hooked an arm behind a leg and laid Aragorn flat before Boromir could blink away the tears he felt gathering in his eyes. 

The hobbits were off of him, trying to keep Aragorn down as Sam and Frodo laughed over their dinners from their perch near the fire. Boromir tried to catch his breath and control himself. His chest hurt and his pants felt snug, an uncomfortable pressure building. 

Aragorn had managed to grab hold of Pippin and hold him away so that he might try reasoning with Merry, if he ever stopped laughing. 

Boromir just sat, burning the sight into his memory so that he might revisit it when the nights got too long or Mordor crept too close. He was snapped from his reverie as he heard Legolas remarking that the dark looming cloud was growing too close, traveling in the wrong direction. 

Boromir stood, helping Aragorn to his feet. “It’s moving fast.” He breathed, motioning to draw Aragon’s attention to the smog. He ignored the tingling sensation in his fingers from where their hands had clasped each other. Aragorn stepped back, shielding his eyes with his hands to look at the cloud. Boromir felt the growing space between them keenly, his body already missing Aragorn’s weight and presence. 

Legolas cried suddenly, “Crebain from Dunland.”

Birds that spied on travelers for the Dark Lord, or other evils. Boromir had never seen them in person before. His skills as a warrior would be useless against such a large flock.

Aragorn turned, reaching for his sword and rucksack. “Hide!”

Boromir grabbed his fallen sword with one hand, and Pippin’s scarf with the other. “Hurry!” He shoved Pippin towards a rocky outcropping, then turned and picked up the hobbit’s blades before diving under some heavy bushes. From his position flat on his back, he glanced over as the birds began to swarm the area, their loud caws deafening him. 

Aragorn was safe under a rocky overhanging, and Frodo was with him. Merry and Pippin were squeezed under the same out cropping, he could hear them wrestling to get the best view. 

The birds’ screams continued for too long as hundreds of them swooped down and flew through the rocky outcroppings. He felt a buzzing in the back of his skull, the pressure in his ears building to a ringing, stabbing pain. He was trapped, and although he could see the blue sky through the foliage providing him sparse coverage, he was confined, the branches pressing down on him, scratching his face and arms. 

He couldn’t protect himself here, couldn’t protect anyone from here. He glanced over at Aragorn, his arm still tingling from the brief moment when they were pressed up against each other, two hobbits in his protective grasp between them. The ranger had his hand out, palm facing Frodo as if to shield the hobbit from the bird cries. 

As quickly as they had come, the birds left. Traveling as if of one mind, they turned sharply and headed back the way they had come, their cries still ringing amongst the rocks long after they had gone.

Everyone waited, still holding their breaths, until Gimli popped up from his hiding spot in the cleft between two large stones. “I’ll say, that was a close one.”

Gandalf, pulling himself up by his staff, sounded more tired than Boromir had even heard. “No Gimli, they knew we were here. They have returned to their master to report on us.”

“Well, why didn’t we kill a few of them? I could go for some roast fowl.”

“You think we could have taken an entire legion of birds?” Legolas laughed at the dwarf, his musical peal seeming to add to the insult.

Gimli turned towards Sam, grumbling to the hobbit. Aragorn and Boromir moved in close for council with Gandalf, Boromir trying to ignore the heat in his chest. Now was not the time for distraction.

“We cannot continue on this path, Gandalf. Surely you see that.” Aragorn whispered. 

Legolas raised an eyebrow, and Boromir knew the elf’s pointed ears could pick up their hushed whispers, even from ten paces away where he helped Sam salvage what was left of the early dinner.

Gandalf’s bushy brows were furrowed even more than usual, looking for all the world like one hairy caterpillar stretched across his wrinkled forehead. “There is not another safe path through these mountains. Any other path will take us through dangers we cannot protect them from.”

“Mithrandir, could we not circumvent the mountains and travel through Rohan? The horse folk will welcome us grandly, and we will be better-” 

Gandalf interrupted him. “I would not take us that close to Isengard for all the pride in Gondor, Steward's Son. No, we must travel this path. Even if we were to take other packs, the Dark Lord and his servants have other ways of finding and tracking us.”

His pride stung, Boromir felt the warm heat in his chest burn hotter; instead of the flare of desire, it was the fumes of shame eating at him. He looked to Aragorn for support in this matter, but Aragorn’s dark look told him that once again, he sided with the wizard. 

Boromir knew he was right in this matter - going over the mountains would weaken the entire company, and they would be walking right into a trap set by the enemy. Surely Aragorn had to see that. Even if Gandalf was wise in the ways of the world, this plan was folly. It had to be the enmity between them, between their two destinies, that made Aragorn ignore him so. 

Boromir couldn’t keep the frustration from his face. He sheathed the blade he was still holding loudly and stalked away before he said something he regretted. The vision of Aragon staring lovingly at him from his high throne in Minas Tirith turned sour, the glow of love turning to a glower of hate, the bands of honor on his wrists turning to constricting bindings. 

There would never be a time when he could love a man freely in the halls of the Minas Tirith, and Aragorn would never be that man. And that thought made him feel as though his heart were breaking.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir has an opportunity to take the ring, but this situation causes even more tension between Aragorn and the Steward's son. Legolas and Boromir have a chat, because they should get to interact more.

Boromir was cold. His chain mail was frozen to his tunic, whether by sweat or melted snow, he did not know. Even beneath his leather gloves, his fingers felt stiff. He did not understand how the hobbits were coping. They wore neither shoes nor gloves, though he had offered to lend a glove each to Merry and Pippin. 

He could feel the ice in his lungs, stabbing him with every labored step up the mountain, and yet they climbed. Gandalf, far in the lead, would turn his head every so often like a hen counting her chicks. If the hobbits and Bill the pony, a stout little fellow who had the eyes of a beast who knew sorrow, could make it without complaining, Boromir would keep his feelings to himself. There was no one in the group he could trust with his complaints either. Gandalf had shown his distaste for the Steward’s son this entire trip, Aragorn distrusted him, and he would not burden the hobbits any more than necessary. They were young and small and inexperienced; Samwise spoke often about how far from home they were, and Pippin would ask how many leagues they had traveled after a fifteen minute march.

After several hours of travel, Boromir could not feel his feet, his muscles aching with the cold. They were not even yet halfway up the summit and he worried what would happen when the time came to camp. There was no wood to burn here, which meant no warm dinner. Perhaps there was some strong elven wine packed among their supplies that would bring the life back into their frozen limbs. 

Behind him, he heard the crunch of a body hitting the snow and the scraping sounds of someone tumbling down the mountain side. He turned to see Aragorn stooping to help Frodo up while the rest of the fellowship marched on, unaware of the ring-bearer’s fall. This fellowship was doomed if the only people who paid attention to Frodo were himself and Aragorn. He could take the ring and kill the hobbit and the only one who would know for hours would be Aragorn. 

Boromir felt a deep surge of shame as the thought flitted across his mind unbidden. He would never do such a thing; he had sworn to protect the one who bore the ring and Boromir was a man of his word. He was a good man, and he would not give in to these unwanted base impulses.

He saw it then, glinting bright against the white glare of the snow. The one ring, slipped from the neck of the teetering hobbit, lying free on the snow. Aragorn was still helping Frodo up, brushing the snow from his layers of clothes. 

Boromir stooped to pick it up, feeling the weight of it in his hands. It felt light, a mere trinket dangling from a fragile chain. And yet the weight of the object settled in the back of his mind. This was a boon that could turn the tides of the war in Gondor, could see prosperity flourish through the seven levels of his home. 

He could hear Aragorn’s voice in the distance, but it was drowned out by a soft whisper in his ear, telling him of the great deeds his father could accomplish with such a gift. The freedom Boromir could have, no longer tied to being a man of war, but instead a man who could bring peace to his people. He wanted it. Would do anything to get that freedom.

“It’s a strange thing that we should suffer so much… fear. So much doubt over so small a trinket. It’s such a small thing.” He caressed it with his free hand and could feel warmth seeping back into his tingling fingers.

“Boromir!” Aragorn’s harsh voice pulled him out from his reverie. “Give the ring to Frodo.” 

For a moment, Boromir was confused. He wasn’t in the courtyard of the White Tree, gauzy banners blowing in the warm breeze, the smell of a celebratory feast hanging lazy in the air. He was on the side of Mount Caradhras, his boots wet and his muscles screaming from the cold.

Picking up the ring where it had fallen did not make it Boromir’s by any standard of the term. It was still bound to the hobbit, and Boromir would protect him until the ring was destroyed or the ring came to Boromir by rite of succession. He was not a thief, he was the captain of the guard of Gondor, proud and noble. No matter how much he wanted to bring peace to his people, there were some lines he would never cross. 

It was then that he saw Aragorn’s hand resting on his sword hilt, tense and ready to draw. Of course Aragorn thought ill of him. In his eyes, Boromir was the son of the man who stole the throne from Aragorn. Their relationship would always be so strained; this was the destiny their ancestors had passed down to them, and Boromir was not one to shy away from fate.

He dropped the ring into Frodo’s waiting palm easily. “As you wish, Aragorn. I care not.” He tried to laugh to show that he was genuine in his statement, but it felt hollow even in his own ears. To break the tension, he reached out and tousled Frodo’s hair, shaking clumps of snow from the hobbit’s dark curls. Still, Aragorn kept his hand on his blade. 

They held eyes for a minute, Aragorn’s face dark with distrust and barely bridled rage. He looked ready to attack, and Boromir knew that Aragorn would feel no qualms striking the first blow before his opponent could bring up a blade or a shield to defend himself. Boromir’s gut twisted. He didn’t want this. He never asked for this anger and rage. His position of birth was something he never asked for and at times, was something he didn’t want. Boromir chose to be Captain of the Guard of the White City not because he wanted the glory and the fame, but because he was strong and could protect those under him. That was the person he wanted Aragorn to see, not the power-grabbing enemy he could feel Aragorn sizing him up to be. 

Boromir turned, swinging his shield onto his shoulders. If Aragorn wanted to attack him from behind, so be it. Boromir would not stoop to fighting with his companions, even if they thought him a liar and a thief. Boromir had not stolen Aragorn’s seat of power. If Aragorn wanted the throne of Gondor, he could have come and laid claim to the throne whenever he desired it. 

Boromir was a man of honor, as was his father, once. If one with a stronger, legitimate claim to the throne appeared, they would return rule of Gondor to him and would once again serve as helper and chancellor to the king. 

If Aragorn and Gandalf wanted to distrust him, to poison those in the fellowship against him, so be it. He would see his duty through until the end and would prove that their fears were baseless, if only to get the last laugh in when his honor was vindicated. He would get his chance to prove his mettle. 

The burning he felt in his lungs was one of indignation, and it felt good to feel so warm inside. Letting this ire fuel him, he picked up the pace, almost jogging to catch up with the rest of the fellowship. If staying away from Aragorn was the only way to keep his hackles down, so be it. 

***

As the midday sun started to dip west, the fellowship reached a thin pass and stopped for a brief lunch of dry bread and sausage. The snow here was so deep and untraveled that it went above the heads of the hobbits as most of the fellowship sunk in with each footfall. Gimli took over leading the pony, claiming that he could see over the walls of snow that Gandalf was plowing through with his staff. Legolas walked easily atop the snow. 

Boromir assumed that his bones were hollow like that of a bird, and he would have found it amusing to assign bird types to each elf he had met, were it not for the fact that he was following behind Gandalf carrying both Merry and Pippin in his aching arms. 

At first, the lads had clung tight to him and he had barely had to do anything but walk. As they passed the first hour mark, he could feel them getting heavier as the cold and the hard trek had worn them out. He had to keep adjusting his grip on Pippin to keep the dozing hobbit from slipping to the cold ground. He did not begrudge them their rest, but he wished he too could sleep, their body warmth making his drowsy as well. He could feel the weight behind his eyelids. If he could just sleep for a moment…

He knew what happened to people who slept in this type of cold. They would drift off and would keep falling until their souls passed into the halls of the ancestors, their bodies forever frozen in repose. He shook his head, trying to clear the drowsiness from his mind, but it made the muscles in his shoulders scream and ache. 

A voice drifted through the air, untamed and feral. It was probably just his exhaustion but he could feel it leeching energy from him, pounding against him like waves against a rock. It had that dreamy quality that his visions always held, and for a moment he thought he might be safe in bed at Minas Tirith, waiting for a vision. 

The elf prince sprinted past him, drawing Boromir’s attention and giving him a jolt of adrenaline. “There’s a fell voice on the air. I can’t make it out.”

Boromir looked to Gandalf, watching the wizard’s eyes grow wide with panic. “It’s Saruman!”

A crack resounded overhead, a boom as the mountain split followed by the scraping of stone against stone. Everything was blinding, white, and cold. He was back in Osgiliath, watching men be crushed beneath falling rocks, the roar of battle raging in his ears. Out of instinct, he ducked and hunched over Merry and Pippin, trying to shield them as best he could. He cradled the hobbit’s heads in his hands, making sure to shield them with his own body as the rocks crashed down, breaking off some of the path where they were standing.

Scree pounded down on him, but he forced himself to continue covering the hobbits even though his body tried to arch and roll away from the pain. He looked to his left and saw Aragorn, back against the wall, struggling to hold onto Samwise who was lunging towards the packpony. He could see Sam’s mouth moving but couldn’t hear the words that he knew the hobbit was screaming. All he could hear was ringing in his ears as he felt orc blades biting into him and his men, could feel the foundations of Osgiliath shake as siege machines pounded flaming rubble into once noble buildings. 

He wasn’t there any more, he breathed deeply to himself. He was here, on a god-forsaken mountainside half buried in snow and rubble, carrying creatures the size of children on a quest that would surely kill them all. The noble death he had always dreamed of. He grunted as his hearing slowly returned.

“We must get off the mountain!” He heard Aragorn pleading with Gandalf, and he agreed. This mountain wanted them dead, and staying would just raise it’s chances of success. 

Gandalf disagreed. He climbed out of the trench he had been digging for the fellowship to pass through and struggled to stand firm. He began chanting in Quenya, the language of the Noldor and of ancient spellcasting. 

Boromir only recognized it as such because of the magical weft he watched Gandalf weaving, pleading with the mountain or the storm or Saruman, he knew not which. Whatever it was, it was not enough. Lightning crashed across the sky and struck the top of the mountain. It was close enough that Boromir could feel his hair raising into the air, his skin tingling and burning. He dove closer to the mountain for shelter, taking care not to crush or suffocate either of the hobbits beneath him as he continued to shield them with his own body. 

He could hear the snow cracking and churning above him. Out of instinct, he looked up to see where the attack from above would come from. A wall of snow, growling and picking up everything in its path, was crashing down towards them. Without thinking of the consequences, Boromir tightened his grip on the hobbits despite their protestations and bowed his head, hoping the crushing snow would follow the path of the stones and just slide off without causing too much damage. 

The weight of it struck him fully on the back, burying him under several feet of the white, biting cold. It trapped him there, cradling Merry and Pippin in his arms. He couldn’t hear their complaints between the insulating snow and the rising panic in his chest. 

This wasn’t how Boromir, eldest son of the Steward of Gondor, the Captain of the White Guard, wanted to die. He could feel himself choking and suffocating, panic filling the space where air could not reach. The pressure was immense, and he couldn’t free his arms from where they were trapped beneath the struggling hobbits under him. They were a tangle of cloaks, limbs, and weapons as they wriggled and panicked. 

Boromir arched his back, trying to swim upwards even as the weight of the snow pressed down on him. Terror possessed him, unable to see or breath or move. He began thrashing, his shoulders swinging wildly back and forth. And then his head broke free of the blanket of snow and he gasped, the cold, dry air making him choke and sputter as his breathing normalized. It was sheer reflex that made him lift both the hobbits so their heads broke through the snow as well. His muscles cramped and spasmed with the effort.

“We have to get off of this mountain.” He wasn’t sure who he was speaking to, but he could see the rest of the fellowship struggling to get out of their snowy tombs. He caught Gandalf’s eye as the wizard looked back over the shivering group. Boromir thought he saw panic in the old man’s eyes.

“We could make for the Gap of Rohan, Mithrandir. Or we could take the west road to my city.” He pleaded with Gandalf while trying to hold Merry and Pippin’s heads above the snow drift. “Please Gandalf. This will be death to the hobbits.”

Boromir wanted to scream, to yell at the wizard that this plan was madness, but he was so weary. He tried to open his mouth, but his mind felt fuzzy, and his movements were slowed. Gimli, bless the daft dwarf, filled the silence. 

“Gandalf, if we cannot go over the mountain, we should go under it. My kin will welcome us with roaring fires and news of evil’s movements along our way.”

Boromir could understand what Gimli was saying, but even as he spoke, the fell voice took up again, the sound bouncing off the rocks and melting into the snow. It was everywhere and nowhere all at once. It was different this time, less furious but just as dangerous. He could tell that what was sound to him was a force or pressure on Gandalf, weighing down the wizard’s soul. Boromir didn’t know how much more the graybeard could take.

He could hear the weariness in Gandalf’s voice. “Let the Ringbearer decide.” 

Everyone turned to Frodo, still half buried in the snow, so small, his face and hands blue from the cold. “We’ll take the path through Moria.”

Boromir turned to catch Gandalf’s reaction, and was surprised to see the terror in Gandalf’s eyes, though his voice only conveyed the cold weariness they all felt. “Very well. We will turn back.”

Boromir thought he should feel better about getting out of the cold, but this choice felt wrong as well. Nothing had felt right since they had set out from Rivendell. He knew that wasn’t true. It felt right when he was training with the hobbits, when he was watching Aragorn laugh with the others, when their hands had brushed briefly before the Crebain attacked. Those moments had felt right, but not right for this time, this trip and its purpose. It was just easier to say that everything was wrong than to admit that what felt right would never be his reality. 

***

The trip down the mountainside was uneventful compared to the trip up. Samwise demanded they stop multiple times to check on the pony’s hocks for injuries to the joints. He fussed over that beast like he was Bill’s mother, but Boromir was grateful Samwise had someone to fret over. Boromir had seen that trait in many a soldier - if you spent your time worrying over your friend, you had less time to panic about yourself. Soon, Sam would process his own distress without relying on the pony, Boromir was sure of it.

Pippin, on the other hand, didn’t seem to need to adjust to this new chapter of life. The Tookling pestered Boromir to let him use Boromir’s shield as a sled. Pippin rationalized that he would be able to get down the mountain much quicker and would be less of a burden. This went on for more than an hour before Gandalf threatened to blast the hobbit down the mountain if he did not control his “unceasing prattle”. 

The phrase threw Boromir back to a more pleasant time, one filled with lessons and kindness and safety. The nostalgia didn’t wear off even when Pippin grumbled about how he wouldn’t have to ask so much if Boromir had just agreed with the halfling. Boromir tousled the hobbit’s hair and then handed the shield over. It was a weapon of war, let it be used for something good for once. 

“Be careful, Pippin. The mountain side is steep, and the drifts of snow can be quite deep. If you lose my shield-” But Pippin was already off, laughing maniacally and swearing as he whipped down the mountain side. He crashed not thirty yards from them, but made sure to keep hold of the rounded shield. At that, Merry clamored to get a chance, and Boromir spent the rest of the walk down making sure the hobbits got equal chances. 

They even persuaded Samwise to try it once, though it did not have such a happy ending.

“How is one supposed to hold onto such a contraption anyways, Mister Boromir. It isn’t right, getting snow down one’s trousers like that. And how am I supposed to walk with breeches as wet as this? I’ll freeze my legs off, if you pardon my crass speech sir.”

Even Gandalf laughed at Sam’s complaints, briefly forgetting for a moment the severity of their situation. 

Aragorn made sure to stand between Boromir and Frodo, continuing to spare inscrutable glances towards his fellow man. Boromir made sure to catch his gaze and stare back on occasion, making sure Aragorn knew his intentions were not unnoticed. 

When they reached the base of the mountain, they set up camp in almost the same location they had camped the night before. Boromir canceled the hobbit’s sparring lesson - traveling through the cold all day had wiped all of them out. They took turns wrapping themselves in blankets and drying their clothes around campfires. Gandalf had agreed that multiple fires, which multiplied their chances of being tracked, were required, and not just to pick up the fellowship’s spirits. 

Boromir made sure to set up his bedding at the fire Gimli and Legolas had started together. For two people who seemed to hate each other to the bone, they still insisted on doing so many things together. Setting fires, seasoning dinner, hunting and foraging. All were opportunities to have new, creative arguments. But better to be subject to the sniping of an elf and a dwarf than to the icy glares of a ranger in dark clothes. Boromir’s body was cold enough; he didn’t need to add the chill of Aragorn’s personal opinions on top of that. 

As his clothes dried over the fire, he sat naked under a warmed blanket, rubbing life back into his frozen calves. He tuned out the dwarf’s lecture on the benefits of dwarven stretches after a long march that would make even a human’s relatively short life feel like an eternity.

To distract himself from the pinpricks of warmth slowly finding their way into his legs, Boromir began to strategize. In Gondor, Boromir was known for his dauntless battleplans. He was a master of using terrain and limited munitions to his advantage. Even when his troops were outmanned and outpaced in terms of weaponry, he leaned on the loyalty of his men and his own experience to lead them to victory. Now he realised that maybe it had more to do with the strength of his soldiers instead of his own abilities, for here he had no loyalty, no experience, and no plans. 

His father required him to bring the ring to Gondor in order to hold back the armies of Mordor. Doing so would provide a brief respite to regather their strength and potentially strengthen ties with other nations so that they could once again mount an attack that would push back into the lands of Mordor. Such an attack would provide a better opportunity for the fellowship to make their way to Orodruin. But Gandalf and, to a lesser extent, Aragorn would never allow this to happen. At least, not until they saw the current state of the war against Mordor with their own eyes.

To show them the dangers of trying to storm Mordor, they would need to travel the path between Osgiliath and Morannon. There, they would see the sort of things that Boromir had grown up with, and would know the true state of their world.

Boromir was drawn away from his own schemes by Legolas quickly standing up and yanking on the dwarf’s outstretched lecturing arm. “Gimli, show me the type of stone you are speaking of.” 

“Ya daft elfling, I wasn’t speaking of rock or stone.”

Legolas managed to pull the dwarf away from their fire, and for a second Boromir thought he was hallucinating. He moved to rubbing his other frozen leg, staring after his retreating companions. Then suddenly, Aragorn was in front of Boromir, kneeling to see eye to eye with the seated captain. 

Boromir would have jumped out of his skin, except that was all he was wearing under the warm blanket. He wished he was clothed under the scratchy blanket; the ranger’s scrutinizing glance made him feel even more naked. He made sure to pull the blanket tightly closed, not wanting to give Aragorn the satisfaction of knowing he had the upperhand in this situation merely because he had the good sense to be wearing breeches. 

Boromir opened his mouth to say… something. But nothing came out. What was he supposed to say? 

Aragorn finally blinked, giving Boromir a second to catch his breath.

“I’m sorry.” 

Boromir bit back the angry retort he was preparing, caught off guard. This was not what he had expected to come from the ranger’s unpleasant mouth. Boromir shook his head slightly. Aragorn’s mouth wasn’t unpleasant, it just seemed to be in a constant state of displeasure every time he looked Boromir’s way. 

The ranger continued. “I mean for the anger between us. It was not my intention to create this tension, I just… I take my vows very seriously, and I swore to protect Frodo, the ringbearer.”

Boromir leaned forward awkwardly, the blanket restricting his movement. “I never meant harm to the halfling. To any of them, but Frodo most of all. You must know that. No matter what other expectations have been placed on me, this duty is first and foremost for me.”

They held each other’s gazes, and Boromir felt himself willing his intentions and his earnesty into his expression. He wanted, no, he needed Aragorn to believe him. Not just for the sake of the fellowship, either. This was something selfish that Boromir held close to his chest, much as he was holding close the blanket.

Aragorn’s gaze was intense but wasn’t malicious. He was sizing Boromir up, and for the moment, Boromir was glad he was sitting down already. Drinking in the feeling of having Aragorn’s attention without the threat of a sword at his waist was making him feel weak in the knees. Apparently satisfied with his investigation, Aragorn nodded to himself. “Well, good then. I don’t suppose we could start again, this time on an equal footing for an equal purpose?” 

The ranger held his hand out and the proper thing to do would be clasp it in friendship and embrace. There was nothing that could compel Boromir to drop the blanket and accept this gesture of friendship while so unclothed. Not even the shrieks of the Nazgul or the braying of wargs would move him from this spot. 

“I wonder,” Boromir wet his chapped lips nervously, and then glanced meaningfully at his drying clothes, “Would it be possible to delay this conversation until we are both equally clothed?”

Aragorn looked confused for a moment, then registered the burgundy tunic that was hanging limply over the feeble flame as Boromir’s. For the first time, Boromir saw the ranger blush, his cheeks almost matching the hue of Boromir’s shirt. He stood quickly, turning to look for a quick excuse to step away. 

The thrill that went through Boromir’s body drove all thoughts of cold from his extremities. He wasn’t used to having the upper hand in conversations with Aragorn, and it felt good to not be the one blushing and sputtering excuses. Boromir didn’t want him to leave.

“There’s room here if you’d like to rest and dry off yourself.” He offered, gesturing to where Legolas and Gimli’s bedding were already laid out. 

Aragorn was still looking around for a way out. Did the thought of another man’s nakedness unsettle him so? Boromir didn’t take the sharp-featured ranger to be one of those men, so afraid of turning into a thing that disgusted them that they fled from all forms of friendship and intimacy with other men. 

Aragorn mumbled something incoherent and moved to step past Boromir. Perhaps Aragorn had noticed that Boromir’s glances often went beyond the platonic. Maybe he saw some hint of the yearnings Boromir tried to keep tamped down. Boromir would have to remember this, and keep his personal thoughts more closely reigned in. If anything, this would be good for Boromir. It would push him to move past these immature feelings of attraction. 

Aragorn paused next to Boromir and set a hand gently on Boromir’s shoulder. The contrast between the chill radiating off of the ranger’s wet clothes exaggerated the warmth of his hand on Boromir’s shoulder and Boromir worried that when Aragorn stepped away, he would leave a handprint burned into Boromir’s shoulder. They remained there in silence for a moment, unobserved by those around them, the lingering touch too tender to just be a friendly pat on the shoulder. 

“And that’s why we call it metamorphic rock, laddie.” Gimli’s voice broke the spell of the moment. Aragorn bolted and was gone before Gimli noticed he had even been there. Legolas, looking generally annoyed, made eye contact with Boromir and quirked his eyebrow quizzically. Boromir just shook his head, a sad weight resting at the base of his throat making it hard to swallow. He was fighting back tears for some reason and just wanted to be left alone. 

He turned back to the fire, rearranging the blanket securely around his shoulders. Had he misunderstood the emotion behind Aragorn’s panic? He had known several people who were attracted to both men and women, alongside those who preferred not to be categorized as either. It was possible that Aragorn was such a person. Either way, it was none of Boromir’s business. He was not here to find out if anyone was interested in him. He was here to find a way to bring peace back to Gondor. And he would not let tender touches distract him from that purpose. 

Gimli had taken Boromir’s social cues and grunted something about helping Sam season the stew before shuffling over to the fire where the four hobbits were taking turns toasting bits of bread before dipping it into the simmering pot that Samwise was monitoring. Legolas sat down too close to Boromir, almost shoulder to shoulder. Boromir wasn’t sure if he couldn’t read human body language or if he just chose to ignore it. 

“I see you had a conversation with Aragorn.”

“Is there nothing you don’t see?” Boromir grumbled, reaching to see if his shirt and leggings had dried yet. They were warm, and he was tempted to put them on, but they were still damp and without the fire would set a chill in his bones that would take days to shake. 

Legolas laughed and though Boromir tried to hide it, it had the same melancholic effect on him as before. “Of course there is, Steward’s son. If I don’t want to see something, I simply close my eyes.”

Boromir grunted, trying to hint that the conversation was a non-starter, but Legolas foraged ahead.

“Aragorn has long been smitten by Lady Arwen, even going so far as to court her against her father’s wishes.”

“Lord Elrond does not approve of Aragorn?” Boromir tried to sound uninterested, but there had to be a reason that Legolas was confiding this in him.

“Elrond… he took his time warming up to the idea. I think he had different expectations for his daughter, but has allowed her to make her own decisions. He is wise like that.”

Boromir wanted to hear more about Aragorn’s relationship with the Lady Arwen, but Legolas’s petulant tone was the same as when a brokenhearted Faramir wanted to complain about his latest failed love-quest but wanted Boromir to ask about it instead of just listening. Sighing, Boromir took the bait. “You speak as though there is someone who’s parental wisdom you do not agree with.”

He caught Legolas glancing over towards the rest of the fellowship. “My own father has many expectations for me that will never come to fruition. We have not spoken directly in more than 40 years.” 

Boromir nearly choked. “You haven’t spoken to your father since I was child. What could he have done to cause such a rift?” 

Legolas shrugged. “Things have always been tense. He cares not for anything besides his own kingdom and does not seem concerned that it grows smaller by the day. He cares more about drinking and merriment and control. He refuses to admit that he is afraid of interacting with anything he does not control directly, and that is why our forest is closing in, choking out what little exchange with the outside world remains.” 

They had more in common between them than Boromir wanted to admit. “We have similar experiences, then.”

Legolas exchanged glances with Boromir, his expression one of indecision. Boromir realized with surprise that Legolas was trying to decide if he could trust Boromir with some specific information. 

Legolas seemed to come to a decision, and stared straight into the fire, refusing to meet Boromir’s eyes. “Does your father also insist that you marry and bear children you do not wish to have?”

Boromir choked back a laugh. Legolas was being serious here and he would answer the elf prince’s question with the gravity with which it was given. “My father has insinuated from time to time that it would be useful to marry someone in a position to expand our army and our political power, yes.”

“And how do you respond?” After saying this, Legolas glanced over briefly, his eyes just meeting Boromir’s before darting back to the fire.

“I do something brave and foolhardy to distract him from that line of questioning. Winning back some land or striking a blow to the dark lord’s armies. He then gets caught up in publicly praising me that he forgets to privately disparage me. I don’t think that will work in your case though.” 

Legolas pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his arms on top of them, wedging his chin between his forearms like a petulant child. “I’m well past the age of marriage and still he insists. I think he refuses to believe that I’m fully grown. It’s also possible that, because he married later than is custom among my people, he thinks I too will change my mind.” 

Boromir had no knowledge of elvish marriage customs, and didn’t want to wade into a deeper discussion when he already felt like he was drowning. “Well, perhaps you will. Who knows what time will bring, or who will come into your life. Perhaps one day you will meet a beautiful elf or even a human who will sweep you off your feet and you will be able to live a long and happy life with them.” Boromir purposefully kept it vague. It was possible that Legolas would find himself interested in companionship of the male variety, and Boromir wanted to hint at that possibility in case it hadn’t crossed the elf’s mind. 

Legolas looked over at him, and smiled. “Who knows, anything is possible. I did not mean to speak of my own troubles, Boromir. I was speaking of Aragorn. Be gentle with him. He spends so much time worrying about his own weakness and frailty, and I worry that doing so has eroded some of the strength in him.”

The lump found its way back into Boromir’s throat. He coughed to try and force it away. “I want to understand what you mean, Legolas, but I do not. Aragorn simply came over to clarify a misunderstanding between us.”

Legolas smiled, a sad, knowing smile. “We both know there was more to it than that. He feels guilty and is afraid of the path he knows he must eventually take. You being here reminds him that he cannot always run away, that there are real people who are suffering because of his indecision. I think you stir up too many feelings for him to process at once.”

“I did not want to be here either.”

“ _Havo dad_ , settle down. I did not mean it was your fault. I think you will help each other if you don’t kill each other first. Does that concern you, Boromir?”

“I don’t know.” Boromir answered honestly. He paused before probing deeper. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

Legolas kept the same sad smile on his thin face as he stared deep into the flames. “Hm. I wonder.”

Together, they silently sat side-by-side, staring into the fire until Boromir’s clothes were dried and Gandalf called them over for dinner. Even as they settled down to sleep, Boromir couldn’t get Legolas’s words out of his mind. Perhaps he needed to have another conversation with the ranger, maybe when they both were clothed and could talk without falling to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really proud of my characterization of Sam in this chapter. I also think that Legolas and Boromir should co-found both the "I have a shitty dad and a mom who is out of the picture" and the "I love someone my dad would hate and I don't know how to feel about it" clubs. They both deserve more screen time and if I have to be the one to give it to them, I will, gosh-darn it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir has to deal with his complex feelings about Aragorn as the fellowship attempts to enter Moria. It doesn't help that Aragorn seems determined to avoid any conversation with him, or that Legolas keeps offering cryptic advice on how to deal with the ranger's strange outbursts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, thanks for reading this far! I got a bit distracted with a Legolas/Gimli oneshot, but I'm back with a new chapter. Literally my only thought while writing this chapter has been "this is how Boromir/Aragorn can still win", so I hope you enjoy XD.

Gandalf led them on a dark and hidden path down the base of the mountain, following the natural craters and dips. It was exhausting, but better than swimming through snow drifts while carrying two full grown hobbits. After that first day’s march, Boromir had planned on speaking with Aragorn that night. He had considered talking while they walked, but the trail had afforded no privacy, and he would be damned if Gandalf the Gray was going to hear him whisper parleys with the man his father looked down on for abandoning their kingdom. 

When they made camp for the night, Aragorn seemed to be actively avoiding him. He went hunting for dry wood when Boromir made his way over after setting up his bedroll. He also ran for clean water when Boromir offered to help set up the fire with the wood Aragorn had brought back. He even ran off to piss when Boromir asked if he wanted to help clean the dinner dishes. 

Legolas exchanged glances with Boromir while Gimli whistled lowly under his breath. 

“What do you want, braid-beard?” Boromir asked, gesturing over the dwarven prince to help with the dishes. At least, he thought Gimli was a dwarven price. Probably. He was certainly poncy enough.

Gimli gladly pitched in, but after cleaning two plates, he set a hand on Boromir’s shoulder. “Listen, lad. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, not through the dishes when his stomach is full.” 

Boromir shrugged off Gimli’s hand and laughed as if they were in on the same joke. His insides felt like static, the feeling of your hair standing on end right before lightning strikes. He was numb. Or he was panicking. Or, he was numbly panicking. Was he that obvious, so that even Gimli noticed?

“I’m just joking laddie.” Gimli said, stacking the tin plates. “You take everything so seriously. I thought the hobbit’s would’ve rubbed off on you by now.” 

Both Gimli and Boromir looked over to where Merry and Pippin were lounging, smoking pipes and retelling some of their greatest pranks on some poor farmer named Maggot. Merry slapped Pippin on the shoulder and, being some form of intoxicated, Pippin rolled off of the ledge he was sitting on. Both hobbits just cackled madly before knocking the ash out of their pipes and restuffing them.

“I’m sorry, master Gimli. I do not think I’ll ever be so carefree.” 

Gimli nodded sagely. “I doubt a wild hare could be so carefree.” They shared a smile and helped to bank the fire before retiring to sleep for the night. Even when Gimli began to snore, Boromir lay awake, waiting for Aragorn to return to the camp. He considered rousing Gandalf to sound the alarm that Aragorn was missing, but the man was a ranger. If he couldn’t handle himself in the barren wilds for a few hours, he didn’t reserve the reputation. 

Boromir could hear Legolas on his left, sitting and looking up at the stars, singing quietly to himself. He could only translate a few words here or there, but what he heard made him uncomfortable. Something about an unknown home, a fallen star, and the shadows of Mordor. It sent chills down his spine and raised goosebumps on his arms. The sensation faded away when he caught sight of a shadow stalking towards the singing elf. 

He was about to call out when Legolas called gently over his shoulder, “You do not frighten me, Estel.”

Aragorn materialized, smiling. He sat next to Legolas and nudged him with his shoulder, whispering something lost to the air before it could reach Boromir’s ears, though Boromir strained to hear their quiet exchange. The two leaned in close and whispered together for several minutes before Legolas turned and inclined his head gently in Boromir’s direction. Boromir quickly closed his eyes and pretended to be sleeping, absolutely sure that Legolas had sold him out with a quirk of an eyebrow and a sharp smile. In the morning, Boromir would bribe Merry and Pippin to put pebbles in the smug elf’s boots. It would serve him right.

Boromir continued to stew and started a list of all the pranks he had once pulled on Faramir that would be achievable in the wilds. He blinked his eyes once while thinking about the time he had replaced Faramir’s bootlaces with the twine used to tie up fish for drying. It had all the cats in the seven levels of Minas Tirith circling after the teen. He missed Faramir, the comfort of having someone know and accept who you are. Hiding from everyone all the time was exhausting, and not for the first time, Boromir wished that he could just be as others. 

Boromir let the desire flow through him, focusing on pushing it down his arms and through his fingers, down his torso and into his boots, forcing it through his toes and then through the thick leather. Once he had forced the emotion out, he just sat, letting the emptiness drift through him. He allowed it to settle, weighing down his bones and his lungs, slowing his breathing and his heart rate. He let it pull him down further, imagining himself sinking two inches into the ground.

Boromir blinked again, and he felt the dew sitting heavy on him. It was the early predawn morning, a gray mist coating the earth in a thick blanket. Boromir hated rising early, but he loved the beauty of the world coming awake. He quietly shook the dew off his blanket and began packing up his bedding, careful not to wake the snoring dwarf on his left. He did not have to worry too much - Gimli slept with the peace and weight of the dead, and it was only his snoring that reminded his companions that he lived. 

Boromir glanced around for the elf prince, but Legolas was nowhere to be seen. It was not uncommon for Legolas to take long walks in the early hours before the rest of the Fellowship stirred. Where the elf got the stamina, Boromir knew not. Perhaps his hollow bird bones made it easier for him to move about. 

Aragorn was also stirring, probably roused by Boromir’s quiet puttering. Unlike Boromir, Aragorn often removed his boots before sleeping. That was probably because Aragorn’s boots were fitted to his feet and just slid on easily, while Boromir’s required lacing to keep the leather tight to his legs. Often, Boromir was too tired in the evenings to remove his own boots. 

Silently, they exchanged a series of looks that conveyed Boromir’s intention to help Aragorn scavenge for breakfast supplementals and Aragorn’s resigned acceptance of the company. After a few minutes of scouring in silence, Aragorn handed Boromir a set of cool, brown speckled eggs.

“You seem determined this morning, Steward’s son.”

Boromir hesitated, nudging a rotting log with his foot, looking for mushrooms. “Last night, Legolas called you Estel.”

Aragorn grimaced. “Those friends of mine among the elves often call me such.”

“It means hope.” Boromir did not meet Aragorn’s eyes. He didn’t know what he was afraid of.

“You speak the tongue of the elves?” Aragorn asked, concerned. 

“Not fluently. My brother Faramir is much more versed in the other languages of the world. I can pick up a phrase here or there, but not enough that would keep you from gossiping with Legolas about me.” Now Boromir shot at glance at Aragorn’s direction, and found that his words had hit their mark.   
“We do not mock you, Boromir-”

Boromir did not care that he was interrupting. “I know what you would say of me, Aragorn. I know the rumors that must circle about me. I am a thief, or I abet a thief who has stolen the throne from you. I am a man with little honor, I am a man of a temper and a weak will. You do not deny it?”

They had dropped the pretense of looking for food, confident that they were far enough away from the rest of the slumbering Fellowship that they would not disturb them. Instead, they stared at each other, sizing each other up. Boromir had a small knife in his boot, and Aragorn had a curved blade attached to his belt, next to where his sword would hang in a normal circumstance. They would not need blades if a scuffle broke out.

“I do not think it is stealing to possess something someone else has abandoned.” Aragorn said, working his mouth around the words like he was trying to gather a bitter taste in one cheek so he might spit it out. 

“So you do not want the throne of Gondor? You do not want to lead and heal her people?”

“I have not served her people since the early days of your grandfather, Steward’s son. I do not think it fitting for me to try and lead her now.”

Boromir’s mind raced - how old was Aragorn? - but he was drawn out of his calculations by Aragorn’s continued words.

“I have only heard that you are a man of courage, one who’s men would follow him into the maw of Morgoth himself if you so asked of them.”

Boromir blinked. 

Aragorn looked down, scuffing the toe of his boot as he continued. “I do not wish to seize the throne, Boromir. I am no more a lord of Gondor than a trout is a lord of the sea. I will do my service elsewhere.”

“Legolas is right.” Boromir breathed, catching Aragorn by surprise. “You are so afraid of your own frailty, you would not let yourself be examined in the light to see what is truly beneath the mask of the ranger.”

Aragorn moved back, as if ready to turn and run. Boromir, holding both eggs in one hand, reached out with the other to hold Aragorn in place by the wrist. “You reached out to offer a hand of friendship to me two days ago, Aragorn. I will hold you to that. We are of the same Fellowship and have the same purpose. But I do not let my allies shy away from recognizing their own strengths and weaknesses. If you do not examine the metal rings, you cannot find the weak spots that need to be reinforced in your mail.” 

His grasp on Aragorn’s wrist was supposed to be a symbol of support for Aragorn’s sake, but Boromir could feel the heat in his hand growing, the pulse of Aragorn’s lifeforce rebounding through Boromir’s own body. He could feel his heart stammering, trying to align to the same rhythm of Aragorn’s. He let go, as if he had burned himself on fire.

Aragorn turned to walk away, but quietly whispered, “There is more to you as well, Boromir of Gondor. Until you acknowledge it-” The rest of his words were lost to the wind as the sun peeked over the horizon and birds began to call. 

Boromir watched as Aragorn’s retreating form turned hazy in the morning mist. He was not surprised to feel Legolas materialize beside him, the blond man seeming to appear out of the ether itself.

“That was not what I had in mind when I suggested you talk with him, human.” Legolas glanced sideways at Boromir’s aghast reaction and rolled his eyes. “What? You are allowed to call me elf and elf-prince and I cannot call you human?”

“It feels as if I am supposed to be a representative of all humankind when you say it like that.” Boromir rubbed the back of his neck ruefully, until Legolas’s meaning dawned on him. “Eru’s teeth, I’m sorry Legolas. I do not see you as the stand-in for all the elves of Middle earth.” 

Legolas just continued to stand there, his face frozen in nonchalance as Boromir continued to squirm. Finally, Boromir amended. “I will do my best to refer to you by name from this point on.”

Legolas paused a second more, and then said haughtily, “We can still call the dwarf just dwarf, though.”

Boromir burst into laughter. “If you are not careful, Legolas, you might find yourself closer to him than you intend to be. Fate has a way of cursing us like that.”

“Wonderful.” Legolas said, in a tone that indicated the prediction was not wonderful. “If all you’ve found are two pheasant eggs, Merry and Pippin will eat you instead.”

Boromir sighed in agreement, and together, he and Legolas began to comb the area for breakfast.

***

As they walked, the grass and shrubland turned to rock and mountain. They were walking against the mountain, coming upon a body of water. It continued out of sight, too long to be a lake, but too still for comfort. The water was dark and undisturbed. Anything that lurked there had slept long enough to be of a size that made Boromir nervous. 

They continued to walk even as the sun went down, Gandalf explaining that they needed to make it to their location before night completely fell. 

Gimli, walking in front of Legolas but behind Boromir, explained, for the third time, that dwarves had ways of hiding their doors so that only those who knew the secret could pass through them. Boromir spared a long-suffering glance back to Legolas, who looked ready to stuff cotton in his ears.

Gandalf paused to motion at a stretch of vertical mountainside, undistinguishable from the rest of the mountain to Boromir’s untrained eye. Gimli, however, gasped and held a hand out in front of him and behind, tapping Boromir in the back and hitting Legolas in the stomach with extra force. 

“The walls of Durin!” Gimli breathed reverently while Legolas towered over him, glowering. Boromir set a hand on Gimli’s shoulder and used the other to motion forward in an “after you” gesture, placing himself bodily between the elf and the dwarf. As Gimli continued to talk of the importance of the rockface, Boromir exchanged a glance with Legolas, amused. 

“Fate.” He mouthed at Legolas, chuckling at the solid rap Legolas gave with his knuckles against Boromir’s forearm. The blow was expertly landed, and Boromir shook his hand while still chuckling, trying to return feeling to his tingling fingers.

“Children.” Aragorn muttered, brushing past them, followed by Samwise, the last in the line of the party, leading Bill the pony. 

Sam took note of Boromir’s red face, and Legolas’s stifled laugh, and continued to walk forward without comment to them. Boromir could hear him muttering under his breath to the pony about the “discourtesy of some people, holding up the entire group who just want to take a load off,” but Boromir shrugged it off to punch Legolas in the arm, staggering the thin elf, and then used that momentum to sprint around Sam and the pony before the beast could decide to defecate in his path. 

Legolas said something in Elvish that Boromir recognized as a curse before sprinting after him, and that was how they caught up with the rest of the group who had paused outside of the stone walls. 

Gimli still had the starstruck look in his eyes, and Boromir knew he had not stopped telling facts about Dwarven construction. “Certain Dwarven doors are unopenable because none but their Dwarven craftmasters retain the knowledge of how to open them, and even then, some of the masters have forgotten.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Legolas muttered, intending the insult for Boromir’s ears only. Aragorn, who had paused to wait for Sam to catch up, glared at the both of them but Boromir continued to force his smile at Legolas. The elf was not convinced by Boromir’s performance that Aragorn’s disapproval did not bother Boromir, but he let Boromir continue the charade. 

Their attention was quickly diverted by Gandalf, who was muttering incantations and wiping at the stone wall with his hand and staff. He looked up and must have invoked the moon or the air because the cloud cover broke and moonlight poured over their surroundings. It refracted off of the stone wall but Boromir noted that it did not reflect off of the dark water, it’s rays instead seeming to dance around the edges of the still water.

Pulling his eyes away from the hypnotizing body of water, Boromir gasped and stepped back, stumbling on the rocky ground. Out of nowhere, a glowing set of trees grew in the rockface as if painted before their very eyes and wrapped around each other, forming some sort of doorway. He could see the outline of a set of double doors set into the mountainside where none had been before. 

“A door!” Pippin yelled excitely, rushing forward to try and push in. Gandalf allowed him to spend his strength before explaining.

“If you would but wait a minute, Pippin, I would show you the elegance of Dwarven doors. As you can see in the writing above the lintel, it demands a passphrase as the key to unlock the doors. I have but revealed them at this time.”

Pippin pouted as Gandalf continued. “It reads, ‘The doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak friend and enter.’”

“What does it mean?” Merry asked, popping up beside Pippin. 

“Simple.” Gandalf said, shooing the two hobbits back with his staff. “If you are a friend, you will know the password to speak to be let in.” 

Gandalf planted his feet firmly, turning towards the door, and Boromir did the same, preparing for a blast of energy or chill or something else unexpected from the wizened man. Instead, Gandalf intoned some words that sounded powerful and echoed with the weight of magic, but nothing happened. 

Gandalf frowned, an expression not much different from his resting face, and tried again. Still no movement or change in the door. He waited a moment more, and then pushed against the doors as if they were waiting for a push. When nothing else happened, Pippin shrugged. 

“Nothing’s happening, Gandalf. What are you going to try next?”

Gandalf whipped around and Boromir crouched, familiar with the wizard’s impatience with foolish questions.

“I will use your head to beat in the doors, Peregrin Took, and if that does not open them, I will at least have some peace and respite from foolish questions.”

Pippin seemed sufficiently cowed, and backed away while Gandalf turned back to the stone doors and continued muttering. 

Boromir waited a moment, then turned to Gimli. “Do you have any ideas, master dwarf?” 

Gimli shuffled awkwardly, his silence an unexpected surprise. After a moment, he shrugged and huffed. “These doors were carved long before I was born. I was not entrusted with their secrets.”

Boromir sighed, and then scouted around for a place to rest until Gandalf stumbled upon the secret password for the doors of Durin. He settled between the roots of one of the gnarled, leafless trees that were scattered around the border of the still river. He was absolutely certain that the disfigured trees were a direct result of the water - whatever foul thing had settled there definitely had an effect on the surrounding foliage.

After a moment’s hesitation, Gimli settled in next to him. While the dwarf was rather long-winded, some of the topics he would opine about were useful and sometimes even interesting. Boromir asked a few questions about the layout of Moria, and what was mined there; just enough inquiry to get Gimli talking, supplemented here or there with questions that put Gimli back on the trail of useful information.

While Gimli prattled on at Boromir’s guidance, Boromir watched as Aragorn and Sam began unpacking Bill the pony. While this was a normal nightly occurrence, there was a different air about the activity than normal. Sam’s shoulders, normally broad and proud, were slumped, and Aragorn was moving slowly, letting Sam take the lead. 

“While Mithril is a very beautiful substance, it is very difficult to mine, and even more difficult to smith.”

Boromir was only half listening to Gimli speak. Aragorn was whispering kind things to either the pony or the hobbit, and the gentle way he laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder as Sam removed the bridle from the pony’s head sent a pang of loss through Boromir’s heart. It was not unlike the first time Borormir had to explain to Faramir what it meant for a pet dog to die. He strained to hear Aragorn’s words over Gimli’s technical explanation of the processing required before mithril could be forged into ingots for armor or weapons. 

“Mines are no place for a pony...”

Boromir thought he heard a sniffle from the hobbit, even as Gimli cleared his throat. Boromir turned his attention back towards the dwarf, who continued from where he had left off, as if Boromir had never tuned out Gimli in the first place. By the time he looked back over, Sam still had his back to the rest of the fellowship, watching the pony trek back the way they had come, and Aragorn was nowhere to be seen. 

A sudden wet, plunking noise drew his attention, and he turned to see Merry and Pippin tossing stones from the shore into the water. He moved to stand and stop them, but Aragorn beat him to it, catching Pippin’s arm and warning them not to disturb the water. 

The cut of his figure against the encroaching darkness made Boromir color and avert his eyes. The angle at which Aragorn’s arm bent as he held the small wrist of the halfling was a work of art, and Boromir knew he would see the ranger’s angles and curves in his dreams, if they ever got to sleep this night. 

He watched as the ripples from the thrown stones evened out, but stood to his feet when he saw other ripples pushing towards the shore, as if the moon was creating a tidal pull on the river. He walked up behind Aragorn, making sure he was not the only one seeing this. Whatever was causing these ripples would be much larger than anything he wanted to deal with, especially as they would be pinned against the sheer cliffs of the mountain.

As the dread was growing in his stomach, he heard a loud cracking noise, and looked over his shoulder to see the stone doors finally opening up. Gandalf must have remembered the passphrase. He put a gentle hand on Aragorn’s shoulder and motioned toward the opening in the rockface.

Together, they shuffled the hobbits in front of them, sparing one glance over their shoulders towards the now active water, it’s pull trying to draw them into its depths. Boromir would be glad to leave it behind.

The light of the moon barely made it beyond the opening, the shadows of Moria dark and oppressive. Gimli was boasting to Legolas of the hospitality that they would soon receive from the Dwarves, but the sense of unease that had been growing in Boromir’s stomach continued to grow. If the dwarves really were available to offer this hospitality, why were they not watching this door? Where were the torches and lights that would provide easy entrance to their abode.

The air smelled stale and moldy, and Boromir tried to place the exact type of stillness and dry air as anything other than the cool terror of an abandoned tomb. Boromir could see Gandalf’s outline at the front of the Fellowship, stooped over his staff and whispering a small cantrip. 

Gimli continued. “They call this a mine! A mine!”

Boromir felt something crunch and clatter under his feet just as Gandalf’s torch lit up, providing a blindly white light that stung Boromir’s eyes. After a second to adjust, he looked at his feet and saw a femur, broken and ground into dust under his boot. He looked around, scanning the area for any movement among the dozens of brittle corpses scattered throughout the room, the majority of them wearing dwarven armor and pierced with multiple arrows. 

“This is no mine, Gimli. This is a tomb.” 

The hobbits began to panic, and he could feel his own fear rising with their stamping as they tried to get away from all of the dead bodies littering the floor and stairs. He tamped down his terror, the calm of practiced command making way for rational thought. Legolas pulled an arrow from a corpse and studied it while Gimli next to him fell to pieces at the sight of so many of his kin slain. 

“Goblins.” Legolas confirmed, his voice clipped and steady in a way Boromir had not yet heard from the elf prince.

Boromir turned his attention to the wizard, who was scanning the scene, trying to make sense of the slaughter. “We should never have come here, Gandalf. We should make for the gap of Rohan.” 

Gandalf looked at Boromir as if just remembering that the rest of the fellowship was present. He gave a clipped nod and motioned for everyone to back out of the cave. The hobbits had already backed behind everyone else, and Boromir turned to retrieve Gimli. He wanted to offer comfort to his companion, but that would need to wait until they were safely out from under the shadow of this cursed mountain.

He heard a slithering noise, the air growing chill around him as he tried to place where the danger was coming from. Then the hobbits began screaming. Sam called for Strider and, as if they had practiced, both Aragorn and Boromir turned and ran out of the mines, drawing their swords. Frodo had been grabbed by a tentacle that was pulling him towards the water, now roiling and churning as if it were boiling. Sam was hacking at the tentacle that was wrapped around Frodo’s legs and Merrin and Pippin had grabbed the ringbearer’s arms and were trying to pull him to safety. Before Boromir and Aragorn could reach the halflings, several other tentacles launched out of the water and shoved the hobbits to the ground, using the opportunity to try and drag Frodo into the water. 

Boromir charged into the water, ignoring the panic coursing through his body. The water came to his thighs, and Boromir knew that losing his footing would be a death sentence in this chaos. However, Boromir was well trained to fight in this type of terrain, and he hacked at several of the tentacles, providing cover for Aragorn to free Frodo and pull him to safety. An arrow whistled over his shoulder as Legolas provided covering fire. 

Allowing himself to hope, Boromir turned to see if Aragorn had managed to pull Frodo to safety. However, the creature in the water was not willing to give up on it’s prize so easily. Boromir watched in horror as more than 20 tentacles, willowy and thick as aspen trees, whipped into the air and a large face rose from the water. It was as broad as it was wide and had several eyes and a mouth that opened to show rows of pointed, sharp teeth that without a doubt could puncture through armor. 

Boromir was hit in the chest by one of the tentacles, and it took all his focus to stay on his feet, his chest aching as the breath was forced from his body and he was knocked back.

Frodo was in the air, suspended by tentacles at a height that neither Boromir nor Aragorn could reach. Boromir tried to push down the cold terror that was filling his body, spreading like the chill from the frigid water seeping into his boots and tunic, weighing him down. 

They could not lose Frodo and the ring to this beast; they would never be able to retrieve the artifact from this creature. He would never be able to return home. Aragorn was yelling, swinging his blade at the tentacles holding Frodo aloft. 

Again, Boromir tried to give Aragorn cover, drawing the creature’s attention with practiced swings that severed tentacles left and right. He watched as Aragorn grew closer to the only remaining tentacle holding Frodo aloft, and Boromir knew that Aragorn would not be able to sever the tentacle and catch the falling hobbit at the same time. 

Ignoring his own safety, Boromir rushed forward, no longer trying to hold back the tentacles that were swiping at him. He ducked under one attack, and then watched as Frodo began to fall, his panicked screams giving urgency to Boromir’s weighed-down limbs. Boromir caught the halfling in his arms, sparing a moment to thank the Maiar that Frodo was not skewered on Boromir’s blade. 

Boromir turned to run, and Aragorn placed a steadying hand on Boromir’s back, guiding him forward out of the water. 

“Legolas!” Boromir yelled, praying that the elf was able to provide a covering fire for their retreat. The elf obliged, firing several shots in quick succession. Boromir didn’t look over his shoulder, even when the creature screamed in pain and slammed it’s remaining tentacles down around them, disturbing the water and throwing Boromir off balance. If it wasn’t for Aragorn’s steadying hand holding him upright, Boromir would have pitched forward into the water and given the monster opportunity to snatch up Frodo again.

After reaching the shore, Boromir stumbled a bit and dropped Frodo to his feet, making sure the halfling didn’t fall. Boromir needed to be able to steady himself and fight off any further tentacle attacks so everyone could make it to safety. 

After Frodo had found his feet, Gandalf’s voice rang out over the monster’s attacks and painful screams. “Into the mines!”

The hobbits and Gimli sprinted ahead and Legolas ran backwards, still providing covering fire for Aragorn and Boromir. Aragorn looked over his shoulder as if he was considering standing against the monster alone to provide the rest of the fellowship opportunity to escape it’s tentacled attacks, but Boromir had lost enough men to evil monsters who served Sauron. 

Without a second thought, Boromir fisted his hand into Aragorn’s cloak and shirt sleeve, the spun cloth slimy with the long undisturbed water, and shoved Aragorn in front of him. Boromir kept his left hand wrapped in the ranger’s clothes, pushing the lithe man forward, while he ran sidewise, keeping an eye and a sword trained on the monster behind them. The creature was dragging itself out of the water onto the pebbled shore, and as it continued to reveal more of its size, Boromir felt his resolve dwindling. How were they supposed to fight against an ancient creature of this size?

Instead of trying to fit into the doors that were dwarfed by it’s bulk, the creature wrapped it’s tentacles around the doors and the rockface. Confused, Boromir shoved Aragorn forward and the man tripped into Legolas’s arms, the elf catching him and keeping him on his feet.

Boromir didn’t have time for jealous thoughts as the rock above him began to groan and crack, once again sending a shower of rock down on his head. The fellowship barely outran the collapse of rock that buried them in the mines. This monstrosity had decided their path for them, it seemed. As the dust settled in the darkness, Gandalf once again lit his staff and, for a moment, Boromir’s fear spiked. The mines seemed safer when he could not see the gore and the defiled dwarven bodies that lay about.

Gandalf looked over the fellowship, making sure everyone had made it out from under the collapse. After confirming that everyone was present, he noted the fear on each of their faces.

“We have but one choice ahead of us now, but do not despair. It will take us four days to cross the long dark of Moria, but we will need to be on our guard. There are older and fouler things slumbering here besides goblins.”

Boromir exchanged a glance with Aragorn. Neither of them would tell Gandalf about Merry and Pippin being the ones to wake the slumbering water monster. Surely the two young hobbits had learned their lesson from this. Boromir adjusted his shield on his shoulder and determined to keep a closer eye on the hobbits from this point on.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped under the mountain with the rest of the fellowship, Boromir wrestles with his own desires. Being penned in underground gives him a chance to speak with Aragorn without worrying that the ranger will run away when pushed, and Boromir is never one to waste opportunities, no matter how much the outcome might scare him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, this chapter is a bit shorter but it's hella angsty. Like, so angsty that I wrote part of it and had to take a 48 hour writing break because it made me too sad. So, if you want to be sad with me, please enjoy this chapter. If you aren't in the space to be angsty and experience some emotional hurt/comfort, take care of yourself and don't read this chapter. <3

Boromir hated walking in the dark mines. So far underground, he had lost his ability to track time and distance. Had they been walking for minutes? Hours? Either way, Gandalf showed no signs of stopping, even though they had entered the mines long after they would have stopped for the evening’s meal and rest normally.

Gandalf kept his staff’s light dim to reduce the risk of waking anything, and refused to let anyone else carry a torch for the same reasons. Boromir also suspected it was also to limit Gimli’s vision; they had already stumbled on two more areas that were staged with dead dwarf skeletons, viscera painting the walls in goblin curses and taunts. The first one had already been too much for Gimli to handle. 

If Boromir had not been in the back with Aragorn and the hobbits, he would have tried to comfort the dwarf. However, Gimli was in the front with Gandalf and Legolas. Boromir was surprised Gimli hadn’t leaned on Gandalf, but perhaps he did not have enough awareness to know that he leaned on the tall blonde elf instead. Boromir had seen the light from Gandalf’s staff glinting off of Legolas’s wild eyes, and Boromir enjoyed the irony as Legolas confusedly patted the dwarf on the back and used his steadying hands to urge Gimli forward in pace with the wizard.

As they continued on, Boromir was proud of the hobbits, especially Merry and Pippin. None of them complained about the harsh pace that Gandalf had set for the fellowship. The terrain had not always been favorable; even though dwarfs were closer in height to the hobbits than to anyone else in the party, their stairs were steep and sometimes too deep for the hobbits to walk up normally. There was one particular stair that had the hobbits climbing on all fours, and yet they did not protest. 

However, after what Boromir thought was a great while, the hobbits began to yawn and stumble. While on such a set of stairs, Pippin fell backwards into Merry, who collapsed into Boromir. Boromir's vision had been clouded with grit and dust and the desire for rest; instead of holding firm and catching the hobbits, he felt his knees buckle as he stumbled back into Aragorn. 

What could have ended in disaster did not. Perhaps Aragorn had more time to react, or he was just more dexterous than Boromir, but whatever the reason, he caught Boromir, his arms thrown out for balance. Boromir fell flat back against Aragorn’s chest, seeming to knock the wind from both of them. For a second, it felt like Aragorn was holding Boromir close, their bodies folding into one. 

The warm feeling did not last. Boromir’s shield clipped Aragorn in the chin as Boromir tried to regain his balance, and he heard the ranger’s teeth click harshly at the blow. The entire fellowship paused, listening to loose rock and scree bounce down the carved stairs, echoing into the night. Everyone seemed frozen, waiting for the hissing and clicking of goblins waking and swarming. Boromir could feel Aragorn’s heart beating, the quiet thumping a distraction from the terror of the empty quiet that was falling again throughout the tunnel. 

As if their lives were not in constant mortal peril in the dark, Boromir could only think of caressing Aragorn’s outstretched arms, touching his strong chest, feeling his heartbeat skin to skin. As the rest of the fellowship began to move forward once more, assured that their ascent was not discovered by any monsters in the deep, Boromir stepped forward, sharply biting the inside of his cheek to distract himself from his unruly thoughts. 

He remembered the blow from his shield and turned, once again concerned. “Are you okay, Aragorn?”

Aragorn brushed off his outstretched hand, rolling his shoulders and glancing away. “It was nothing. No blood, nothing broken.”

Boromir wasn’t quite sure because of the deep darkness of the mines, but he thought that Aragorn was once again being bashful because of their touch. “I’m glad, then.” He paused, and then added, “and thank you.”

Aragorn froze, and then gestured forward awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. 

Boromir was also glad for the darkness. It hid his body’s reaction to being held fast by Aragorn from everyone, except for perhaps Merry who also had full body contact with Boromir, but from the front. Hopefully the hobbit was too tired and confused from the fall to put any pieces together. 

After they reached the top of the stair, Gandalf paused the group, looking confusedly between three different arches leading in different directions. “I have no memory of this place.” He whispered gruffly, his low voice’s echo dying before it left the stairs’ landing. 

The dread that had sat in the pit of Boromir’s stomach since first entering the mines exploded, activating so many of his anxious symptoms. His heart burned as if touched by something corrosive, and could feel bile rising in his throat.His nostrils clogged with the smell of sweat, mire, and iron. His feet, already sore from walking all day, felt heavy, as if weighed down by metal boots. His mind, however, was racing, jumping from one bad conclusion to the next.

As if he could sense Boromir’s turmoil, Legolas moved up next to him, and set a gentle hand on his shoulder. “ _ Sidh, firen.  _ Gandalf will remember the path just as he remembered the password to enter here.”

The reassurance Boromir felt was paltry, but it did give his mind a moment’s pause from its wild convorting as he parsed the Elvish phrase. “‘Peace, human’? I thought we agreed to call each other by name, not by race?” He said, jabbing two fingers towards Legolas’s ribs. The elf’s low-light vision was better than Boromir had guessed, and Legolas easily sidestepped the blow. Boromir spared a glance for where Aragorn was talking in hushed conversation with Gandalf and Gimli. The other man did not seem to notice his immature behavior, and he felt relieved. The relief, however, turned to embarrassment when Legolas made a satisfied mm-hm noise. 

“What?” He said, grumpier than intended, as he set his shield and pack to the ground. As long as they were standing around, he need not hold any unnecessary burdens. He noted that the hobbits had the same idea, though they had also laid down, using their packs as pillows. Pippin was already mumbling, a habit he practiced in his sleep as well as his waking hours.

Legolas waited for Boromir’s attention to return to him before saying, “You crave his approval. I know not why.”

“I don’t crave anything from him.” Boromir scoffed, feeling the blush rise from his chest, up his neck, and into his cheeks.

“You are a terrible liar, Boromir. You want his approval, and yet it should be him wanting approval from you.”

Boromir shifted his weight, uncomfortably. Damn the elf, he was enjoying this. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“That is a truth, at least. He might one day return to Gondor, and rightfully take the throne. For it to be a peaceful transition, it would behoove him to seek your approval first, that you might ease his ascension.”

Boromir scratched the back of his calf with the tip of his boot as he chewed on the inside of his lip, a habit that helped him to think easier. “Aragorn does not want to take the throne of Gondor. He need not seek anything from me.”

Legolas shrugged his shoulders and made a noise of uncertainty, but the set of his mouth told Boromir that Legolas did not believe that Aragorn would not eventually be crowned in Gondor. Boromir wasn’t sure if it was just setting down his pack and his shield, or if it was Legolas’s confidence, but his shoulders felt lighter than they had in months. 

Apparently, while Legolas and Boromir had been speaking, Aragorn, Gandalf, and Gimli had come to a conclusion. Gimli walked over to announce that they would take turns taking watch so that everyone might rest before they continued on. Gandalf was sure that, after resting his eyes and his mind, he would come to a conclusion on the safe passage through. The first up for watch would be Legolas and Gimli. Boromir would be next with Aragorn, and Gandalf would take the final watch. 

Boromir wanted to object to Gandalf being left to watch alone, but he was too tired. He didn’t even bother to unroll his bedding, instead, using the roll as a pillow and using his cloak as a blanket. The carved stone was firm under him, but he did not care. Before he could even think to complain, he was asleep.

***

Boromir felt like he had just closed his eyes when Legolas shook him awake. He hated the middle watch. He rubbed the grime and crust from his eyes, and then stood, testing his calves and thighs for cramps from either the long march or the hard floor. He could feel the early twinges of what would turn into muscle spasms, and knew he would need to stretch before settling in for a long watch. Legolas motioned over to where Gimli was sleeping, sitting up but still quietly snoring. 

“If his snoring gets any louder, feel free to quell him for me.”

“Rough watch?” Boromir asked, dipping into a lunge, the stretch in his calf providing almost instant relief. 

“He fell asleep more than an hour ago and left me to watch alone.” Legolas grumbled, accepting Boromir’s offered cloak without complaint.

“Well, he’s had a difficult day. Night?” Boromir questioned, then clarified when Legolas just glowered. “Yes, no one else wants to be stuck down here, but he isn’t just stuck down here with us. He’s haunted by his murdered, unavenged kin.”

Legolas mumbled something unintelligible, and then lay down, using Boromir’s bedroll as a pillow, and his own cloak combined with Boromir’s as a blanket. “I will think on what you say, Boromir, but I will still be bitter that I completed the watch alone.” 

Boromir continued his stretches, and then made his way over to where Aragorn was sitting. He waited for Aragorn to confirm with a gesture that he was invited to sit, and did so, sitting with his back against Aragorn’s. He was watching towards the direction of the three doors, and Aragorn was watching towards the stairs from where they had come. 

After a few minutes of silence, Aragorn pulled a stale double-baked cake from his pack and broke it in half, passing the larger half over his shoulder to Boromir. Boromir accepted it gratefully, and slowly bit into it. This cake had raisins and nuts mixed in, which made up for the stale crumble of the cake itself. Boromir savored the food, making it last much longer than it should have, treating each bite like a gift. For a minute, he let himself imagine kissing Aragorn, pretending the taste of the cake was the taste of Aragorn himself. He was drawn suddenly from his revelry as Aragorn stiffened, a distant scraping sound echoing up the stairs. 

Both men put hands on their blades, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice. Boromir focused on slowing his breathing down, counting the inhales and exhales as a way of measuring time. After several minutes, the sound did not repeat, and both men eased back against each other. 

“It was probably a reaction to the collapse of the tunnel entrance.” Aragorn offered in a hoarse whisper. Boromir did not respond, but found reassurance in the ranger’s words.

Another brief minute passed, and Aragorn turned his head and whispered, “Do you sleep, Captain of Gondor?”

His breath was warm against Boromir’s neck, and each whispered word caused Boromir’s hair to dance across his collar, making his neck twitch and itch. 

Boromir turned his head slightly, barely able to make out Aragorn’s facial features in the darkness. It felt too intimate, sharing whispered parlays with Aragorn while the rest of the fellowship slept. “I do not sleep, I merely keep silent watch, Ranger of the North.” 

He could smell the sweetness from the travel cake on Aragorn’s breath in stark contrast to the stink of the dried stagnant water that sat around them all. What Boromir wouldn’t give for a bath. He quickly reigned in those thoughts - they would wade out too far if he let them.

Aragorn was silent, but he still didn’t turn away, as if he was searching for something in Boromir’s profile, even in the dark. It made Boromir uneasy. He needed to fill the deep silence with something that wasn’t his current train of thought.

“Do you still not trust me, ranger?”

“I do not know what to make of you.”

Boromir quirked an eyebrow, but allowed Aragorn to continue.

“We have traveled together for many days, and yet you remain a stranger to me. Perhaps by my own efforts, I must admit. And yet, I am drawn to figuring out who the famed Son of Gondor truly is. I cannot rest at night, and I am uneasy during the day. What is there about you that is so confusing, Boromir?”

It wasn’t the first time that Boromir had heard his name on Aragorn’s lips, but there was a familiar anguish in Aragorn’s voice and it twisted at Boromir’s heart. The uncertainty, the self-doubt. It was all too recognizable to Boromir. He licked his lips, trying to buy time to think through his response. 

“Perhaps there is something you see in me that is a reflection of yourself. Something you may not have known before.”

Aragorn turned his head as if looking down the stairs, even though he could not see more than a foot in front of his face. “If you are suggesting that we share some sort of responsibility to Gondor, you know my thoughts on that matter already.”

Boromir wanted to grab Aragorn’s face, straddle his hips, and kiss away the uncertainty from Aragorn’s lips. Instead, he just smiled grimly and knotted his hands into his leggings, pulling the material uncomfortably tight against his thighs. “Perhaps it is something intrinsic to who you are as a man, not to whom you do or do not owe your loyalty to.”

Aragorn was quiet, and Boromir did not push. Instead, he just sat, enjoying the warmth of sitting back to back with another man.

Boromir thought of the irony of this situation. Seeing Boromir romantically connected with another man would definitely cause his father distress, but knowing that Boromir wanted this man, Aragorn the ranger, Aragorn the rightful heir to the throne of Gondor, might cause Denethor to die on the spot. And yet, it was Denethor’s own insistence that Boromir take on this cause that foisted him almost literally into Aragorn’s arms. Aragorn chose that moment to clear his throat, drawing all of Boromir’s attention back to the present moment. 

“Perhaps there is something between us that is the same. Or perhaps there is something in me that would drive you to despair, man of the West.”

Boromir scoffed quietly, shifting his weight to sit more comfortably. “I doubt that there is anything in you that could be so bad. What is so terrible that you dance around even saying my name?”

Aragorn also shifted his weight, but it was the uncomfortable sort of shift. Perhaps Boromir had pushed too far again. After a moment’s hesitation, though, Boromir continued. Aragorn had nowhere to run this time, and if they did not have it out now, they would just continue with this awkward dance until the fellowship ended or one of them died.

“Aragorn, out with it. You will be more comfortable once you have said your peace, and perhaps you will put your friends at ease as well.”

Both spared a glance at where Legolas was supposedly sleeping. 

“I am not interested in taking my ancestor’s place as king of Gondor. This much you know already. I had my chance to take that path, and I turned away out of uncertainty. Even now I am uncertain. Should I have taken up that mantle before? Would things have been different? Better?”

Boromir loosened his grip on his leggings, feeling himself weighed down by Aragorn’s uncertainty and fear of the future. “You cannot blame yourself for choices made in the past, ranger. All you can do is to move forward, doing what you judge as best in the moment. You must own your choices as you make them, that way you can accept whatever consequences come from your actions, good or evil.”

“It’s easy for you to say, you were born with only one path to take.”

Boromir scoffed again, this time with anger as he looked over his shoulder. “You know not of what you speak. I was born to a weakened country, her borders shattered and broken by the enemy. I took up the sword when still a child, that I might protect what little we have left. I love my city, my father, my brother. They are all beautiful to me, but they are broken also. I do not deny it. Gondor grows weaker, as does the will and command of my father. He is a good man, a strong and proud man. But the vice of the enemy grows ever tighter, and even the strongest man might collapse under it.”

Aragorn spun to look Boromir in the eyes, their faces almost touching. “This is supposed to make me feel better? Knowing that men stronger than I bend under the weight of Gondor’s rule?”

“No.” Boromir breathed, knowing that he had but to lean forward inches to touch his mouth to Aragorn’s. “It is supposed to make you think. You see the world in black and white. This choice is right, while that choice is wrong. There is no right and wrong in matters such as this. There is only what is, and what might be. The right and the wrong appear only when you are deciding how to make what might be come to fruition.”

Aragorn leaned in closer, and through the darkness, Boromir thought that Aragorn’s eyes were on Boromir’s lips. Boromir froze, not daring to move forward or backwards, hoping against hope that somehow he had gotten through to this man.

“You are such a good man, Boromir.” Aragorn breathed, and Boromir held back a moan. He could feel all of the muscles from his shoulders down clenched in anticipation, and he braced for disappointment as Aragorn continued. “I think I could love you dearly, if not for the knowledge that we can never be for the other what they want.”

Every muscle in Boromir’s body screamed for him to lean forward, to kiss Aragorn and to stop any more horrible words from leaving the ranger’s lips. Instead, he turned away, pulling in on himself. It felt like he was tearing off parts of himself off inch by inch, and he wanted to sob. “I do not think we should speak any more on this topic. We should keep better watch.”

It felt cruel to lean back against Aragorn, but Boromir was rarely kind to himself. He felt the outline of the ranger’s shoulders, felt the confusion and the hurt radiating off of Aragorn and back into himself. It felt like scratching a burn, just making something painful even more raw. Boromir savored it. He deserved to feel this pain for letting himself think he could change Aragorn into the person he imagined Aragorn was, or could be. He had created these wounds for himself, and sitting in them would be the cure he needed. 

After a second, Aragorn shifted again, but this time moved so that he was on his knees next to Boromir; to hide his face, Boromir would have to actively move away from the ranger. This was a challenge.

“I do not want to stop talking about this. I want to know why I cannot get you out of my mind when I lay awake at night, when I should be thinking of others more dear to me. Why I cannot help but notice where you are at all times. Do I trust you? Do I fear you? I need answers to this, and I will not get them by just watching you.”

Boromir felt tears welling up in his eyes. Couldn’t Aragorn just let him suffer in peace? Did he need sand rubbed in his wounds as well?

“I do not know what you want from me, I only know what you cannot give, what I cannot accept.” Boromir’s throat felt raw from the pleading, the repressed emotions forming a lump in his throat that the words had to force their way past.

Aragorn’s shoulders were sagging, and he reached out, placing a hand on Boromir’s cheek, under his ear. Every nerve in Boromir’s face jolted, and he couldn’t think beyond the fact that Aragorn had his hand on Boromir’s cheek, and was gently caressing his face, wiping away a tear that Boromir hadn’t intended to shed.

Aragorn spoke sadly. “You see now that I cannot be a good king. A true king brings healing to his people, and I bring you only pain.”

Boromir felt himself choking on the words that were trying to pour out, the lump in his throat causing them to jam. All of the air in the room and in his lungs was stale and moldy. He couldn’t breath, his lungs refusing to pump the air he needed so desperately. He could feel his chest burning, feel his skin, his ribs, his organs collapsing in on themselves, crushing him. He needed to get out from this horrible darkness. He could handle these emotions if he wasn’t so far underground, so far from home. He couldn’t even bring to mind his white city; he was well and truly lost.

In that moment, when he truly began to despair, he felt Aragorn pull him in, his warm, soft lips pressing against Boromir’s own. Tenderly, he stroked Boromir’s cheeks, wiping away the tears that streamed forth. Boromir felt a sob bubbling up, and felt alarms go off in the back of his mind. Before he could tamp it down, Aragorn tilted his head so their lips locked together and smothered the noise before it could leave Boromir’s mouth. 

Almost hesitantly, Aragorn ran his tongue gently across Boromir’s lower lip, and Boromir moaned quietly. The pressure in his chest was replaced with open desire and he could breath, but it felt like his heart was shattering. Aragorn was right, this would only lead to more pain, for both of them. 

Still, he wanted this here, now. He raised his own hands to Aragorn’s face, feeling the stubble that lined Aragorn’s sharp jaw. For a moment, he thought that the world around them was on fire, but as he opened his eyes and saw only the darkness and the faint outline of Aragorn so close to him. The roaring must have existed only in his own ears, the heat boiling from his blood alone. 

Aragorn was gentle, but so needy as he dragged his teeth across Boromir’s bottom lip, his thumbs rubbing small circles over Boromir’s cheekbones. Boromir could feel the desire spreading through his body, the dull ache of loneliness momentarily tempered by Aragorn’s soft touch. 

Again, Aragorn ran his tongue across Boromir’s bottom lip and Boromir opened his mouth slightly, an invitation he knew he might regret. He ran his hands down Aragorn’s neck, grazing his Adam’s apple and collarbone as they both pulled apart for ragged, quiet breaths. He could feel the Elvish’s woman’s necklace still around the ranger’s neck, and leaned forward, gently touching his forehead to Aragorn’s. They sat like that for a moment, Aragorn still holding Boromir’s face as Boromir fingered the token at Aragorn’s neck. 

As if trying to break the silence, Aragorn tilted his head back and gently kissed Boromir’s forehead, still warm from the brief contact. Boromir knew where this was going.

“The lady who gave you this jewel, she waits for you still.” He whispered, still touching Aragorn’s chest even as the guilt began to flow. Boromir loved men dearly, but he did not make cheaters of them.

Aragorn leaned his cheek against Boromir’s forehead, hands still warm against Boromir’s own cheeks. “At her father’s wishes, Lady Arwen will be making her way to a safe haven that I cannot follow her to. While I am always in her heart, she is not mine to love any more than I am hers.”

Boromir could feel the slight tremble in Aragorn’s hands as he talked about her, and realized now why the farewell between them had looked so painful; neither had expected to see each other again. And he had thrown himself at this man who had so recently been absconded from the one he loved on a death quest. The guilt was replaced by shame. 

“Tell me, Steward’s son,” Aragorn whispered, his breath warm and familiar against Boromir’s ear, “do you still feel the pain I have caused you?”

“I can take the pain, if it eases yours.” Boromir whispered back, and he meant it. He would die a thousand deaths if it brought even a bit of happiness to this man. 

He could feel Aragorn’s grim smile as the ranger once again pressed his lips to Boromir’s forehead, this kiss more akin to one from a parent than from a lover. “You would rake yourself over hot coals for love, without complaint. You do it now for your father, for your city. I would not have you do it for me as well, Boromir. You can only so many allegiances hold before they tear you apart.”

Boromir raised a hand to Aragorn’s wrist, almost touching his own face in the process. He knew that any more words, any more reasons or arguments, would still yield the same response, and for now, he would accept this gift. He gave a gentle squeeze, hoping to communicate that acceptance without words.

They silently returned to sitting back to back, although this time Boromir’s left hand was clasped in Aragorn’s right as they kept watch. The only sounds that echoed around them were the quiet breathing and snores of their traveling companions. 

In some small way, Boromir felt at peace. He knew it would not last - the pull between him and this ranger was too strong to be tamed by kind words and gentle kisses in the dark. The tide was going out for the night, but it would be back. He could only hope he would not drown under it when it returned.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fellowship continues to make there way through Moria. they pause to let Gimli grieve and Pippin causes a ruckus. There is a big fight.

Boromir couldn’t tell what time it was, or even whether it was day or night, but he knew when a watch was over. It was almost muscle memory, like the way he kept his eyes moving, sweeping out in front of him in lines that criss crossed. That technique helped him focus on specific points in his surroundings while still seeing the whole picture, and had the benefit of helping to keep him alert. He rolled his shoulders, pulling his hand loose from Aragorn’s, then stood and completed a set of full body stretches. 

Aragorn did not react to Boromir’s absence, and Boromir knew he would not mention anything that had happened during the watch to anyone, even if Legolas asked about it. Perhaps this conversation and it’s ensuing contact would be a one time event, but Boromir doubted it. Even when traveling with so many companions, the road was long and the nights were dark. Everyone needed to lean on someone else on occasion, and Boromir would be there for Aragorn if he needed it. Aragorn was right; Boromir would do almost anything to make sure those dear to him were safe and happy, no matter the personal cost. 

Boromir mentally kicked himself as he shook Gandalf awake. If he let his mind wander, he would set himself up as some sort of martyr. Self pity didn’t help anyone, and could actually cause more harm than good. Boromir had seen many a soldier who thought themselves some sort of romantic hero whose death would bring about some great insight or boon to those around them. Instead, they usually were a burden to their company; their daring-do only exposing the entire unit to danger. He would not let himself become such a man.

Gandalf woke with a start, catching himself at the last minute before he brained Boromir with his staff. Both men relaxed as Gandalf remembered his surroundings and leaned back, no longer threatening Boromir. “I’m sorry, my boy. It’s not often that being shook awake under a mountain comes with no threat.”

This kind speech was not what Boromir had expected. “What happened to the crotchety old man that fell asleep here not 6 hours ago?”

Gandalf snorted as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You must have caught me at a moment of weakness. Tell no one, or I will spread rumors about a young Steward’s son and his inability to learn his lessons.”

Boromir was taken aback for a minute. “That is petty indeed, greybeard.”

Gandalf shrugged. “So I’m a petty, crotchety old man. Haven’t I earned a bit of peace in my advanced years?” 

Although they had been whispering, they heard stirring from the pile of sleeping hobbits. Before Boromir could respond to Gandalf, the wizard groaned. “Anyone but the Took.”

“Peregrin isn’t so bad, Mithrandir.” Boromir offered, helping Gandalf to stand so he could stretch his old bones. “Yes, he is impetuous and brash, but his heart is in the right place.”

Gandalf chuffed a bit, but seemed a bit subdued even as he offered one last barb. “His heart might be in the right place, but I doubt that his brain is. I will go a bit easier on the lad if it makes you content, Boromir.”

They both watched as Frodo disentangled himself from the mass of Hobbit limbs, rubbing his eyes before making his way over.

“I would appreciate it, Mithrandir. Frodo, do you not wish to take more rest? You’ve had a difficult few days.”

Frodo glanced towards Gandalf before answering, and Boromir knew that he had lost what little trust Frodo had towards him after the confrontation on the slopes of Mount Caradhras. Before Frodo could offer any placation, he took his leave. “Hopefully you will find some relief in Mithrandir’s council.”

He crept over to where Legolas was using both his bedroll and his cloak, taking care not to disrupt Aragorn who was just drifting off. Legolas was deep asleep and did not stir even when Boromir tried to take back his cloak. The elf had a strong grip on the fabric, and Boromir’s attempts to retrieve it were not met with success. 

Frustrated, Boromir laid down next to the elf, worming his way under both cloaks, pushing Legolas’s head slightly along the bedroll to make room for himself. With his back against Legolas’s warm body, Boromir let the elf’s rhythmic breathing carry him off to sleep.

****

Boromir felt a gentle hand brush over his forehead and for a moment, he thought he was dreaming again. It had been decades since someone had stroked his forehead so gently, and on occasion he would dream of his mother. She would sing to him and wipe his hair away from his forehead, running her cold hands down his cheeks like she did when he was a child. But this touch did not feel like his dreams; it was too solid to be a construct of his touch-starved mind. 

Boromir’s eyes flew open, the surrounding darkness overwhelming his other senses as, for a moment, he was completely alone. After a moment, his vision adjusted and he was able to see the hand that was gently stroking the hair from his face. It was thin and unlined, though there were calluses near the joints of the first three fingers, calluses formed by years of archery practice. 

He kept his voice low; he did not want to wake his other companions, their deep breathing and snores reassuring him that most of them were still sleeping. “Legolas, what are you doing?”

Legolas drew back his hand, and Boromir quietly slipped out from under the shared cloaks, turning to face the elf. Legolas had propped himself up on his left arm and had a chagrined look on his normally placid face. Boromir sat across from him, out of reach, and waited for the elf to answer.

“You were distressed, I could hear you grinding your teeth and crying in your sleep. I meant nothing by it, I only wanted to make certain that you were not hurting yourself.”

Boromir signed, rubbing his hand down his face, and massaging his jaw. The elf was right, his jaw was sore and his molars ached from the pressure. “I appreciate the gesture, Legolas, but you cannot just go around touching grown men’s faces while they sleep.”

Legolas rolled his eyes. “In the ages of my people, you are still but a child.”

“In the ages of my people, I have lived longer than half the men of my city.” It was an overestimate, but Boromir was upset. Being touched so intimately was almost painful; much of the physical contact he shared with other men was driven by baser desires. Boromir had given up dreaming about relationships, even platonic ones, where gentle caresses were common long ago. He was used to the rough touch that came with hidden, rushed sex, and the gentleness shown first by Aragon and now by Legolas this night was paralyzing. If he let himself think of someone gently petting his face again, he would break down once more.

Instead he set his jaw to keep from dwelling on the idea of physical contact. “My standing in this fellowship is not such that I can be infantilized and still carry out the duty I have sworn myself to. Please.” 

Legolas looked from Boromir to where Aragorn was sleeping, to Gandalf and Frodo, hunched over together in quiet conversation, back to Boromir. “You are afraid of what they will all think of you when they find out that you prefer men.”

Boromir felt his face pale, felt the strength leave his limbs, the quiet numbness that he buried rushing to fill all the empty places his strength and control had just evacuated. “How did you- I never told anyone.” That was almost true. Faramir was the only person he had ever told. All of the men that Boromir had ever been with had met him with silent understanding, no words needed. And yet somehow, this elf had figured it out within a fortnight.

“Boromir.” Legolas tilted his head, confusion and concern written all over his body language. “You think you hide it so well, and I believe that you once did. But since we have begun this journey together, I have seen you.”

Boromir pressed the palms of his hands against his eye sockets, hoping the pressure would keep any tears from forming in his eyes. It was not a pleasant sensation, but it kept him from hurting himself in other, more drastic ways. “I wish you had just closed your eyes, Legolas. I do not like being seen by you.”

“Why are you so afraid of being known? Was it not you who told Aragorn mere days ago that unless he examined his armor under the light, he would not be able to find the weak spots?”

“A citadel captain cannot afford to have such a weakness.” Boromir shot back, making sure to keep his voice from carrying too far. “You think I want to spend my life hiding, skulking away from the very thing I think would bring me wholeness? Of course I do not like hiding parts of myself, lying about who I am. But it is more important that I be Boromir, Captain of the Guard of the White Tower of Ecthelion, son of the Steward, than I be… this.” Boromir gestured down his body, as if that explained everything.

Legolas glanced over at where Aragorn was sleeping, the dark cloak draped over the ranger’s face, rising and falling slightly in time with his breath. “Do you think that is what draws you to him? That you two are the same because you are both hiding from the thing you were meant to be?”

“What, you mean that Aragorn is meant to be a king and I am meant to be an outcast?”

“No,” Legolas said, the conviction in his voice striking Boromir at his core. “Aragorn is meant to heal, and you are meant to be loved.”

Boromir was absolutely sure of one thing only - if he heard any more sincere words from Legolas, he would tear himself in half. He was saved from that fate by Gandalf swooping over to start shaking the sleeping hobbits awake.

“I’ve found it; it’s that way.” The wizard said excitedly, gesturing towards the right archway.

Pippin, still groggy from sleep, pumped his fist in the air in a gesture of victory. “He remembered it!”

Gandalf started to chastise the young hobbit, but spared a glance in Boromir’s direction before padding his tone. “The air smells fresher - when in doubt always follow your nose.”

Boromir nodded his gratitude towards Gandalf, grateful more for the distraction than for the wizard’s kindness to Pippin. However, as everyone was rising and groggily trying to gather their belongings, Legolas grabbed Boromir’s shoulder and leaned in, whispering.

“You may run, Steward’s son, but no matter where you go, your purpose will follow you. Whether it is the men you lead into battle, or those you lead into your bed, you will be loved by the end of it all.”

Heat exploded in Boromir, seeming to fill every part of him with a tumult of emotions. Fear, desire, anger. It was too muddled for him to separate out every feeling, and, like his anxiety, they seemed to sharpen his awareness. He felt like a wound coil, ready to spring or lash out at any moment. He noticed Aragorn send a puzzled look his way, and Boromir quickly shrugged Legolas’s hand from his shoulder.

“Believe what you want, elfling. For me, hope will only turn to despair, and I choose not to tempt fate.”

Boromir turned, slinging his shield over his shoulder as if it was some sort of barrier that would keep Legolas’s words from haunting him. Boromir was thankful when the fellowship took their normal walking order. Legolas and Gimli followed directly behind Gandalf, with Merry and Pippin filling the space between Legolas and Boromir. Sam and Frodo likewise filled the space between Boromir and Aragorn. It gave Boromir the illusion of safety. He would not have to speak with Aragorn or Legolas, so he did not have to pretend that he was fine. 

Since there was no indication that they had woken anything dangerous, Gandalf agreed that a little bit of light would actually be helpful, so Gandalf had his staff lit and Aragorn carried a torch they had found in a wall sconce. Boromir had opted not to carry a torch since he wanted to be free to wield both sword and shield if needed. 

They had only been walking for about an hour before they came upon a deep gash in the path. Gandalf ran his hand along the wall as they approached the canyon, tracing his weathered fingers along silver traces in the wall. He gestured for everyone to stand close to the edge, looking down. Boromir kept the desire to drop a rock to see how far the chasm went at bay as Gandalf whispered a few words, making the light in his staff pulse and then grow. 

The white light bounced off of the exposed material in the wall going all the way down and, like off a mirror, the light bounced down farther than Boromir could fathom. Boromir looked at the company in amazement to see if they saw what he did. Gimli had tears in his eyes and even Legolas looked impressed. Boromir spared a glance to Aragorn on his right and felt his breath hitch in his chest. The light washed all the lines and worry from the ranger’s face, leaving his skin clean and young-looking. His eyes were the brightest, deepest blue Boromir had ever seen. It seemed almost as if some internal light was awakened in Aragorn by Gandalf’s staff, and Boromir knew if their glances met, he would throw himself into the chasm, trusting the lightness of his heart to keep him from plummeting to his death. 

Boromir closed his eyes, dizzy from the height, or at least that’s what he told himself. Gandalf was talking about mithril; that must be what the dwarves had been mining here. Gandalf mentioned that someone named Bilbo had been given a mithril shirt, and several small voices around him gasped. Boromir supposed that should mean something to himself as well, but all he could think about was Aragorn leaning over the mine, his face aglow with wonder and beauty. 

A small hand grabbed his own and tugged. Boromir quickly opened his eyes, realizing that Merry was pulling him along, the rest of the fellowship moving forward again. 

“You okay, Boromir? You look like you saw a ghost.”

From ahead, Pippin called back, “He’s probably afraid of heights. I hear tall folk often are, which is silly if you ask me. Why would you grow so tall if you are scared of heights?”

Boromir could feel Aragorn smiling behind him, and allowed himself to smile as well. 

“If you think that is tall, boys, one day I will have to show the view from the seventh level of Minas Tirith. It’s almost as beautiful as the view of the city herself.” 

He ruffled Merry and Pippin’s hair, falling back into the marching order. He felt cheered, even though he still could not remember what his city looked like, resplendent and bright in the morning light. All he could see was the face of a dark-haired man lit up with wonder and magic, shining for only Boromir to see.

*****

They broke for what Boromir assumed was a late lunch, Pippin declaring that if they didn’t stop to eat, his stomach’s rumblings would wake every creature between them and their exit. Boromir didn’t think Gandalf believed him; Gandalf was humoring Pippin for Boromir’s sake. And Boromir was glad for the rest. He was no stranger to a long march, but he was still weary from the hectic events of the past two days. 

They ate quietly, no one having much to say about their dwindling food supplies. 

Boromir weighed out how much water he carried on himself and drank lightly. At least on Caradhras, they had unlimited access to snow. Boromir shook his head slightly, trying to clear the thought. Most of them would have perished if they had continued up that mountain, he was sure of that. At least they had a chance here. Aragorn caught Boromir’s eye and raised his eyebrow inquisitively, holding his own waterskin. 

Boromir shook his head slightly, trying to convey that there was nothing to worry about, but saw from the corner of his eye Gimli nudging Legolas and pointing his way. Samwise also shifted uncomfortably - the hobbit’s wide eyes were always looking for any early warning of danger.

Merry tried to eat his travel cake nonchalantly, but choked on the dry crumbs. Gandalf seemed to erupt. “Out with it Steward’s son! Speak your piece so we might eat in peace.”

Boromir could feel his ears burning, and the grimy sweat drying made his scalp crawl. “I was just calculating how much water I should save since we have at least two more long marches before exiting.” 

The pitying looks he got from Legolas, Merry, and Sam sat like a hot coal in his belly. He could feel the judgmental looks weighing down on him. He wanted to run away, but still he sat, trying to eat something that just tasted like ash, bland and slightly bitter. He could feel them, ready to pounce on him for daring to question Gandalf’s leadership again and again, even though such leadership had them trapped in their own tomb.

And then Gandalf laughed. Not a full bellied laugh that shook his beard and made his hat flop, more of a tinkling twitter of a laugh. It seems to push up everything that was weighing the fellowship down. Boromir glanced up, absolutely certain that the ceiling was a foot or more higher than it was when they first started their meal. “Did I not tell you all? We may have gotten briefly lost but I’ve found our way again, and we are but a single day’s march out of here. If my reckoning is right, we should reach the other side by midday tomorrow.”

As the rest of the fellowship began to celebrate, Gandalf shushed them. “Hush now, we are still within the belly of the deep and we know not what we might still encounter.”

As they began their march again, still quiet but a bit more exuberant, Boromir realized he had been holding his breath this entire march. His ribs were sore from the shallow breaths he had been puffing. He could breathe again. They would all make out of here before too long. He could hold out a little bit longer.

***

They passed through a great hall that had innumerable pillars stretching out farther than the feeble light from Aragorn’s torch and even Gandalf’s briefly empowered staff. The rest of the company gasped with wonder and amazement, but the sight of it made Boromir’s chest fill with a great emptiness, his loneliness stoppered only by the lump of sadness caught in his throat at such a sight. 

A hall so large should be filled with light and friendship and feasting, but it was cold and musty and unused. It reminded him of the throne room of Minas Tirith. Boromir remembered tales of grand processionals, councils, and ceremonies and he could feel the longing to see those days restored eating away at him. Did Gimli also feel such a way here now?

Before Boromir could ask, he heard Gimli scoff, a raspy gasp that echoed through the hall as Gimli sped towards a room teeming with daylight. Had Gimli found a way out from under the mountain? Boromir and the rest of the fellowship tore after him. Boromir felt his spirits rising until he heard Gandalf calling Gimli’s name in that sad, forbidding tone. Was this some sort of trap?

Boromir entered the room at the back of the pack, glancing up to the right and tracing the important lines of the room looking for any signs of movement or ambush. Satisfied that this wasn’t a trap, he took in the room itself. There was a high window on the far wall that seemed to bleed daylight. It must have been some sort of tunnel with mirrors to refract the light from the surface into this room. The window was too high and small for all but the hobbits to slip through. Boromir amended that thought; perhaps Legolas could also worm his way through the opening, if he was willing to squeeze. 

The light fanned out in the room, but the brightest shafts fell on a stone table in the middle of the room. No, not a table. A sarcophagus. Gimli was kneeling in front of it wailing. Legolas had also scanned the room, noting every corpse and dismissing it as a threat. He turned to Boromir and Aragorn, whispering, “We cannot linger here.”

Boromir and Aragorn both shushed him with a slight motion of their hands. Boromir could feel the agitation rising from the elf’s squared shoulders, but Gimli needed a moment to grieve. If they continued to push him, Boromir worried that Gimli would fall to pieces, and he did not want to carry the dwarf through the rest of this long march. 

Gandalf had picked up a scored and burned book from a corpse who was still holding a decomposing quill and began to read. Boromir could feel the terror of the dead growing, their sweat moldy and dank as they sat and waited for death and desiccation to find them. He could hear the quiet clanging of their armor as their limbs failed them, devolving into trembling and weakness. He could see how they died, where the arrows pierced them and blades cleaved. He knew who died quickly and who suffered and he hated it. He could hear the drums pounding, though he knew it was only in his head for the drums did not echo underground; they bounced over water or reverberated across the plains of Gondor.

Gandalf was repeating that mantra, drums in the deep, when there was a clatter. All living eyes flew to where Pippin, holding Gandalf’s hat and staff, was standing next to a well or chasm, a headless corpse leaning back to follow its head down the long drop. Boromir knew he should run forth to grab the chain that was currently clattering and ringing as it also descended, but his feet were rooted to the spot. By the time he glanced nervously over to Aragon, a bucket had joined the long parade of noisy items in freefall. Boromir could feel bile rising, could feel the pre-battle jitters starting. 

Everyone was frozen, waiting for Gandalf to say something, to get them out of this deathtrap of a room. After a moment of silence, Gandalf snatched his hat back from Pippin. Boromir realized that Gandalf gave his items specifically to Pippin to keep the inquisitive hobbit preoccupied, and even that was not enough. Boromir should have been watching him. He could have stopped this from happening. 

Just as they had all begun to breathe easy, a pounding sound shook the floor, coming from below them. At first, Boromir thought it might just be something shook loose from the corpse’s collapse, but then it sounded again and again. It was rhythmic, and Boromir knew it would not stop until every monster in this great cavernous void was on top of them. As the shrieks began to echo up, Samwise grabbed at Frodo’s side and Frodo drew his sword, which was glowing. Before he could react to that, Legolas confirmed what he suspected. Orcs. Boromir could see everyone beginning to panic. The terror that was filling him was familiar, though. He knew what to do. 

While Aragorn herded the hobbits back behind Gandalf, Boromir ran towards the door. At least there was only one entrance into this room, discounting that small window. He began examining the doors. They opened in, which would make breaking through them easier, but with the state they were already in, he didn’t think it mattered much. Two arrows whizzed past his face and he threw himself back half a step before regaining his footing. He slammed the doors closed and threw his weight against one of them, surprised to find Aragorn pressed up against the second door. That extra moment had given him time to confirm his worst fear. 

“They have a cave troll.”

He was surprised to find his tone light, almost joking. It was the panic. His men had always thought him brave in the face of danger, able to quip and joke even as the hordes of the enemy descended upon them. He let them think that because he knew the truth would immobilize them - he was terrified every time. Aragorn did not react to the comment, and they threw themselves into barricading the door closed as best they could with the tools at hand. Most of the tools were abandoned dwarven axes, and they would only hold so long, but even a few more seconds would give them time to take advantage of the terrain. As they made their way back to form lines, Boromir took stock of their position. Gimli had stood on top of the sarcophagus, giving himself a bit more range with his large axe. Legolas and Aragorn stood in front of Gimli, both nocking arrows to bowstring to prepare. Gandalf was to the right of the sarcophagus, shielding the hobbits with his body. Boromir stood to the left of Aragorn and Legolas, that way he could slow any orcs who might try to sneak around them to get at the hobbits. 

Boromir spun his sword around, testing it’s balance and stretching his wrist. He could feel the tension building as bodies slammed on the other side of the double doors, raining down dust and splinters as the doors themselves shuddered and quaked. He could feel it thrumming in the air, in the stretch of Legolas and Aragorn’s bowstrings, in the shuddering breaths of the hobbits as they tried to alternately hype themselves up or calm themselves down. And then the doors began to crack as sharp weapons began to pierce through. Legolas and Aragorn took a few potshots, taking out a handful of squealing orcs before the doors splinted on their hinges and fell to the floor, releasing a wave of orcs into the room. Finally Boromir felt useful. He let Aragorn and Legolas get off a few quick shots before darting forward, using his shield as a weapon as much as his sword. He bodychecked an orc, stunning it. The orc fell to the ground and was trampled under the oncoming wave. Boromir didn’t give it another thought - it wasn’t his problem any more. He hacked and slashed, making sure to not get too close to any other members of the fellowship. He could hear the hobbits yelling as they too joined the fray, but he refused to let their calls invoke his panic. As long as he stayed calm, he could keep track of every one of his friends. He just needed to keep his mind empty of emotions and his eyes open.

It was easier said than done, of course, but there were only eight others to keep track of. Merry and Pippin were dodging and stabbing with their blades, just as he had taught them. Gimli was still fine up on his perch, swinging his axe with gusto. Legolas still had his bow out but seemed to be doing just fine with it, even in such tight quarters. Boromir couldn’t keep up with his loading arm, and didn’t spend time trying. 

But Aragorn. Aragorn yelled like a madman, like he was trying to draw every orc upon himself. And his fighting style distressed Boromir. He didn’t try to block, and he put every ounce of himself into every swing. He committed to the blows, wasting time on overkill methods like beheading as he overextended himself. Boromir knew instantly that Aragorn’s training was not in formal battle like this, where you could be overrun by the enemy, but in the hide-and-sneak-blows style that Faramir preferred. Aragorn would excel at facing a limited number of foes on his own, but with this number of enemies and friends to have his back, Aragorn might become a liability. 

Boromir couldn’t think on that, though, because at that moment, the entrance to this small room shattered, a large hulking gray figure smashing through an entrance much too small for it. Boromir blanched. He had been the one to announce the troll’s existence, but seeing it made his knees quake. He knew the temptation to focus all attacks on the troll could overwhelm any of them, but that’s what the orcs hoped would happen. They would wait for you to be distracted by the larger foe and that’s when they would stick you from behind. Boromir wished he had had the time to explain this ploy to everyone, especially the hobbits. He would have to watch their backs for them. 

The troll stepped forward, being pulled by a chain that attached to an iron collar wrapped around its neck. Boromir had no time for pity for the mistreated monster. A goblin had been trying to sneak behind Samwise, who seemed frozen in front of the huge troll. Boromir threw himself at the goblin, a quick slash across its neck enough to remove the threat to the hobbit. He turned to check on Sam just as the hobbit dove through the legs of the troll. The troll turned to follow the hobbit and Boromir slashed out at the orc holding the heavy chain just as Aragorn lopped off the creature’s arm. They were both of the same mind and grabbed the chain on opposite sides, pulling the creature off balance as it raised a leg to crush Sam. 

The creature spun with deceptive speed and Aragorn dropped the chain to react with his sword. Boromir realized too late that wrapping his arm in the chain to give himself more leverage was a mistake. Even as he tried to detangle the chain from his arm, the creature, cleverer than Boromir had anticipated, grabbed the chain and whipped it, tossing Boromir into the air. 

Boromir felt his body tense as he slammed into the stone wall, his head snapping once against the wall and a second time as he crashed to the floor. His head exploded and everything flashed white hot before going completely dark. He could feel the blood pouring from his ear, trickling down his shoulder, but he couldn’t hear anything. There should be noises, the sounds of battle. Had he been dreaming? Was he dreaming now? He blinked, waiting for the light to return. Slowly, the din of battle grew and he could see light, shapes slowly forming. A dark figure stood over him, moving closer. Aragorn. Aragorn was coming to save him. 

Boromir shook his head slightly, the pain in the base of his skull flaring as his eyesight slowly clarified. The creature over him was not Aragorn, it was an orc, curved blade raised, ready to impale him. Boromir raised his hand, but it was empty, his sword dropped while he was mid-flight, courtesy of the troll chain. He wanted to throw up. He couldn’t die here, and yet, what an end it was. As the orc leaned back to begin it’s swing, the creature’s head seemed to explode. Black blood rained down on Boromir as he realized a sword was stuck in the creature’s neck as it gurgled its last breaths. Someone had thrown a sword. 

Boromir sat up, still shaking and looked to his left where Aragorn was standing, weaponless in the middle of the ruckus. Aragorn nodded at him, and Boromir realized he was asking if Boromir was okay to fight. Boromir’s head was still reeling, but he didn’t have time for emotions right now, even if Aragorn was a thrice-damned fool who just threw away his only weapon during a fight. Boromir stood shakily to his feet, grabbing Aragorn’s sword before limping towards his own. He staved off a few blows with the unfamiliar weapon before getting back to his own blade. Once armed again with his own sword, he looked around for Aragorn. The man was swinging the torch he had dropped, and was doing a damn good job with it, at least as well as you could do with a torch against armored orcs. Boromir allowed himself to wonder if this was a regular occurrence as he hacked his way to Aragorn. The way the ranger was fighting, it seemed that he was used to improvising weapons as he went. 

Boromir handed over the sword wordlessly. He wanted to shake Aragorn and tell him to mind his own back - the man showed several lacerations on his arms where he had narrowly avoided dangerous blows. They were only torn clothes and scratches, but even scratches could be deadly. Instead, Boromir set back across the room, scanning for the rest of the fellowship members along with his shield. He found the shield in the middle of the room where he had dropped it to grab the troll chain. 

He saw Gimli rolling around, barely avoiding being smashed by the troll’s giant club. The dwarf lost his footing, and Boromir lunged forward to try and reach his friend, but was intercepted by an orc wearing a sharp faceguard. The orc hissed at him, spit and blood making it through the tines of the mask and onto Boromir’s face. Boromir used that time to slash the unarmored gut of the orc, organs spilling to the floor at his feet. Boromir combined the attack with a blow from his shield to the orc’s exposed neck as it bent over, clutching at its organs like that would save it. The orc was dead before it hit the ground, but had slowed Boromir enough that he would have to watch his friend die. Just then, two shots came from a ledge and sent the troll reeling back. Legolas was distracted by two orcs, one on either side, but had managed to save Gimli, thank Eru. 

Boromir went back to picking off orcs as they tried to get the drop on other fellowship members. If he continued to focus on the orcs, perhaps the others could find a way to bring down the troll without losing anyone. And then suddenly the troll was screaming and Legolas was standing on its shoulders, readying two arrows. Before Boromir could warn him, Legolas shot point blank at the back of the troll’s skull. The arrows bounced off the tough skin, and the troll began to pound it’s fists on the ground, trying to throw the elf. Boromir skewered an orc as Legolas jumped to the ground, landing safely. Boromir didn’t have time to remove his sword from the skewered orc as a second one rushed him, so he just swung wildly and clipped the second orc in the skull. The weight of the dead orc hanging from his blade made something in Boromir’s should snap. His arm felt heavier, but he couldn’t think of that right now.

Boromir knew Gimli and Legolas were fine, but he had not seen the hobbits in a while. A quick scan told him that Gandalf was doing fine for himself, using both his sword and his staff to beat down orcs with impressive speed. Sam was using a frying pan as a weapon, perhaps they should consider getting the stout hobbit a mace or a club instead of a blade. He could not see Merry, Pippin, or Frodo. He quickly scanned the floor, refusing to let fear set in, but all he could see was orcish blood and corpses littering the floor around the already moldering dwarvish skeletons. That would have to do for now.

That’s when he saw Aragorn across the room, yelling and making his way towards where the troll was in the corner. Aragorn wasn’t even bothering with lethal methods at this point. Boromir watched him bash an orc with the hilt of his swords before punching another with his free hand. Boromir groaned as a group of five orcs turn from where they were trying to head off Gimli towards Aragorn. The ranger clearly had a single focus, and these orcs would be more than enough to bring him down. Boromir sprinted towards them, not sure if his paces were timed with drums summoning more creatures to the fight or if it was just his skull pounding from where it had met the stone walls with force. 

Boromir managed to get the drop on the group of orcs, so focused on their own unsuspecting quarry. That was honestly the only thing that saved him. Boromir’s movements were slowing, his shoulder now throbbing with every swing of his blade. Still, he managed to take one orc out with the metal edge of his round shield; the second fell as his sword went through it’s back. A third was rebuffed with a body check, giving him time to block the fourth’s valiant attempt to decapitate the captain. After dealing with that group, Boromir went backwards, cleaning up the orcs Aragorn had left alive in his rage. He lost sight of the ranger, but he would have to trust that Aragorn could watch his own back for just a while longer. There were more dead orcs than living ones in the room; perhaps they would make it out of this room after all. 

Boromir was on the far side of the room when he heard Merry and Pippin yell. He recognized their voices, remembering their attempts at battle cries under the hazy evening light of the setting sun, feeling warm and safe as the rest of the fellowship laughed at their attempts at bravery. Now those screams were raw, filled with anger and terror. Boromir twisted his wrist in a dangerous attempt to disarm his foe and was successful; that bought him the time to look over his shoulder. Merry and Pippin were both on top of the troll, stabbing and yelling. Something must have happened. He saw Gimli and Legolas flanking the beast. 

Boromir turned back to the orc under his blade, slashing quickly. It wasn’t enough to kill the orc, but it lay bleeding out on the ground and he turned to make his way towards the troll just as Gimli caught it in the ribs with a slash from his axe. Gimli dodged the creature’s arm as Legolas ran towards the front, training an arrow on the creature’s head. A scrabbling hand caught Boromir’s boot and Boromir was almost tripped up by the dying orc on the ground. It had grabbed his leg and was trying to pull itself up, scratching and gouging through Boromir’s leggings. Boromir stabbed down with his sword, making sure to finish the job. He could not afford to be careless. He looked back up and had to immediately jump back. A rusted blade caught one of his overcoat’s ties and frayed the woven thread. The blow wouldn’t have cut through Boromir’s chain, but it would have knocked the wind out of him and given his opponent an opening for a blow that would have done real damage. 

Boromir sized up his opponent. It was an average sized orc, but this one was wearing a full set of armor. He must have been in some position of command. Boromir quickly scanned the armor, looking for any weak points. He didn’t have time for a lengthy, drawn out sword fight with this creature. He needed to be helping his friends. As the opposing orc made a few practice swings, Boromir took a deep breath to force the frustration out from his body. If he was angry, he would get sloppy, and then this fight would take even longer.

The orc lunged forward and Boromir barely parried away the blow, feeling the impact ricochet up his arm and through his wounded shoulder. 

Boromir wanted to call for help, but he could not distract the rest of the group from bringing down the troll. The orc seemed to pull from Aragorn’s book of fighting, however, and overextended himself with a punch following a wide swing. A less experienced fighter might have been felled by the feint, but Boromir had watched the orc’s fist ball up in preparation for the blow. He let the blow land but whipped his sword up, cutting through the orc’s armpit. He then turned the blade as he pulled it back so he could push the point of the blade in through the opening he made into the orc’s rib cage. The orc didn’t make a sound as it died, or the sound was drowned out by the massive thud as a huge body hit the ground. 

Boromir ran to where the rest of the fellowship was gathering around the body of the fallen troll. Legolas, Gimli, Samwise, and Gandalf were still standing, and both Merry and Pippin were slowly getting up from where they had been thrown by the troll. The movement encouraged Boromir. But where was Aragorn and Frodo? Then he saw the Aragorn’s form crawling slowly towards a crumpled, face down figure on the ground.

Frodo couldn’t be dead. Boromir ran through the final minutes of the battle. When had he last seen the hobbit? Horror flooded Boromir’s body. He had lost track of Frodo early in the fight and hadn’t re-established line of sight on him. A small voice in the back of Boromir’s mind accused him of losing track of the ring bearer on purpose, but Boromir knew that it wasn’t true. There had been so much to keep track of, he couldn’t let himself feel guilty for this. It wasn’t his fault. 

Aragorn gently turned the hobbit over, and Boromir caught sight of a hole in the hobbit’s shirt, but no blood stained the white fabric. Frodo coughed and came to and relief consumed Boromir. He was alive. How was he alive? Aragorn pulled the hobbit close in a hug as Samwise started crying with relief. 

“That pike would have skewered a wild boar.”

Gandalf smiled, reaching out to put a hand on Boromir’s shoulder, drawing him closer. “It seems this hobbit has more secrets than expected.”

Frodo unbuttoned the top button of his shirt to expose the most beautiful mail Boromir had ever seen. Even amongst the treasuries of Minas Tirith, most mail that was made for beauty had been melted down or remade into functional chain mail. Boromir felt silly for being proud of the gold plated design bordering the sleeves of his mail when designs such as this existed in the world. It was light and shining, and Boromir recognized the material just as Gimli breathed “Mithril.” 

Boromir wanted to inspect the mail shirt closer, but was distracted by squealing and shadows rising in pitch and form from outside the entrance to this room. They were still distant enough that the fellowship might be able to get away. Gandalf reacted first. 

“We must make for the bridge of Khazad-dum. Run.” 

And run the fellowship did.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After defeating a cave troll and a swarm of goblins, the fellowship flees, finding themselves in an even worse circumstance. Chased by a balrog, Boromir has to come to terms with the fact that once again, his skills and experience is overlooked. And when Gandalf is lost, Boromir has to decide whether he will stay true to his father's purposes or if he will instead follow the leadership of an untested ranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, just a warning, this fic is super canon compliant so there will be a character death this chapter. Take comfort knowing that this death isn't permanent, even if we don't get that far in this fic. Thanks for reading!

Once again, Boromir fell to the back of the group on purpose, making sure the hobbits made their way safely. He was holding the torch Aragorn had been using as a weapon, so he should have been closer to the front, but he needed to watch their backs. He could hear the shrieks growing as they charged forward, could hear the skittering and chittering of the orcs climbing out of cracks and corners. He could hear it from above as well, but refused to let himself stop to look up. He could see ahead a wriggling mass of orcs trying to block their way and, with a grunt of effort, he sped up. Perhaps he could break through the blockade and give the rest of the fellowship a chance to make it through. 

As the fellowship grew closer, Boromir realized that it wasn’t a line of orcs, it was an ocean of them, orcs as far as the eye could see. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that there would be no safe retreat, either. He skidded to a stop next to Gandalf as the fellowship huddled in a circle and the orcs drew near. They were within spitting distance, and spit they did. Some of them seemed to be laughing, others were shaking with excitement. This was probably the most entertainment they had received in some while. Boromir hated them.

There was no way out. He could see that now. The orcs would kill them and would fight over their organs and their bones. Perhaps they would grow greedy over the ring and kill each other until none were left. Boromir tried to steady his ragged breathing, but it didn’t help. He would not go down without a fight though, and he would protect his companions until his dying breath. 

Sweat was pouring down his face now, and while he usually felt clammy from fear, he was warm. Too warm. Something was wrong. Why didn’t these blasted orcs just go for them? There was no way nine people could survive against a horde so large. Even if the damned drums were off time, what was stopping them? 

The orcs’ shrieks began to morph from excited victory calls to whimpers and scared squeals. There was a moment of indecision and then the orcs scattered. Gimli’s laughter rang in Boromir’s ears, but this wasn’t right. There was no way the grunts of one dwarf scared off that many goblins. That’s when Boromir noticed the light at the end of the hall, burning bright. It was hot, and seemed stronger than even the summer sun, perhaps because it was closer. The light danced and twisted in an enchanting pattern, but instead of inspiring a sense of safety like the campfire trances of the road, this fire was dangerous, making Boromir quake in his boots.

Turning so he was at the wizard’s back, Boromir could only whisper. “What kind of newfangled devilry is this, Mithrandir?”

Boromir could feel the tension rising from the old man, his staff seeming to darken as Gandalf’s focus waned. For a moment, Boromir didn’t think the wizard had heard him between the drums which sounded like heavy footfalls, but then Gandalf spoke loudly. “It’s a Balrog, a demon from a time before your world was fully established. This foe is beyond any of you, even one with your experience, Captain of Gondor.”

Boromir blanched. He used to be proud of all of his experience, but now he had faced more monsters in the past four days than he had in the past four decades. He did not want to see what kind of creature advanced through that unnatural flame. He didn’t hesitate to take off when Gandalf once again yelled “run”.This time he stayed close behind Gandalf, torch held aloft. He didn’t want the wizard to worry about keeping his staff lit when Gandalf was the only one who knew the way safely out of this maze. 

Gandalf brought them to a side door and paused, gesturing for them to continue on ahead of him. The hallway was small, and Boromir hoped that it would not branch off, that this path was actually where they needed to be going instead of just a convenient place to try and dodge whatever was following them. Boromir didn’t think they would be able to shake a primordial demon just by ducking down a single hall. 

Boromir was taking the steps two at a time, angry that these stairs just opened into the abyss, no guard or railing to guide them, and he almost didn’t realize that the stair ended abruptly, crumbled away into empty air. He dropped the torch he was carrying, hoping that losing the extra weight would help him as he tried to windmill backwards. He could feel himself pitching forward, his boots doing nothing to cling to the worn stone ledge he was falling from. 

Boromir remembered another time like this, one when he was young, maybe 11, and he had been dared by a much bigger boy to stand at the edge of the wall on the 6th level of Minas Tirith. He hadn’t wanted to do it then either, something about looking over the edge made his stomach take residence up in his throat. But still, the boy had laughed at him and Boromir knew he needed to impress this older boy for some reason that would become clear to him in a few short years. He had slipped then too, pitching forward, unable to keep his balance. He would have died then, if it wasn’t for the strong arm of his father, pulling him back from the edge at the last possible moment. There was no father here to save him though, not this far away from his city, however far down they were under this cursed mountain. 

A strong arm shot out around Boromir and pulled him back. He wasn’t 11 this time, however, and the sharp tug toppled both him and his rescuer. Boromir tried to twist away, hitting his elbow on the sharp stair, but he avoided crushing Legolas. The elf patted Boromir comfortingly on the chest, and Boromir realized that Legolas had been yelling his name as they fell back. Boromir had been saved. By Legolas. The elf was much stronger than he looked, and for that, Boromir was thankful. He patted Legolas’s forearm as he stood, and then extended a hand to help the nimble elf up. Boromir did a quick headcount. The hobbits had all slid to a stop at the edge of the stars. Gimli was right on their tail, pausing to breathe with his hands on his knees. Aragorn and Gandalf were at the top of the stairs, talking in hushed voices. 

Boromir strained to hear them. Gandalf was leaning almost to the point of needing Aragorn to hold him upright. The wizard spoke gruffly. “Lead them on Aragorn.”

A lump formed in Boromir’s throat. Perhaps Gandalf was only commanding Aragorn this because Aragorn looked ready to charge back towards the flaming monster, ready to die to buy the fellowship what, two extra seconds? The idiot. 

Tamping down the disappointment of not being acknowledged as a capable leader, Boromir was about to turn when he watched Aragorn step towards Gandalf before Gandalf shoved him back with strength that belied the elderly facade. “Swords are of no use against such a foe. Go, son of Arathorn.”

Aragorn turned and met Boromir’s eyes. Were those tears of emotion in the ranger’s steely eyes, or was it just the acrid smoke and heat that made the tears gather? Gandalf often used parentage to shame his students into behaving according to the old man’s dictates, and perhaps Aragorn had reason to be ashamed. Boromir had heard it said that Arathorn had perished unnecessarily due to his own pride in his ability with the blade, which is why Aragorn’s mother had fled to Rivendell, hoping that the change of scenery would change the fate of her son as well. And yet he continually seemed to be trying to throw his life away. 

Boromir’s expression didn’t change even though he felt his insides melting with pity. Perhaps Aragorn needed this push from Gandalf to find that his life was not his to just throw away. There were things Aragorn still needed to accomplish in this world, and the thought of him not being around to accomplish those things made Boromir’s stomach flop sourly. Boromir stared back at Aragorn, who blinked away the tears and began descending the stairs. Just as the ranger got close enough to see what lay beyond the challenging glare, Boromir turned, swinging his shield over his shoulder once more as the fellowship tore down the stairs, hopefully on the path towards the bridge of Khazad-dum. 

They came to another gap in the stairs, but this gap was only about three feet across. Boromir was solidly in the middle of the pack, and he watched as Legolas made the jump. He was a picture of grace, seeming to float through the air without effort, his landing surefooted. For a moment, Boromir wondered if the awe he felt at Legolas’s beauty and sharp elegance was something more like attraction than admission, but he shook his head. It was the type of attraction that had no desire behind it, the general admission of beauty that could be found everywhere in the world, if one looked hard enough. 

Gandalf, also at the head of the pack, turned to look over his shoulder, fear still shining in his gray-blue eyes. Boromir wanted to shout at the wizard to keep moving; the fellowship needed Gandalf’s wisdom if they were to make it out of this situation. As if of the same mind, Legolas gestured gently and called out. “Gandalf, you must make this jump.”

Gandalf turned and jumped, more lithe than Boromir would’ve guessed the wizard could be. Legolas caught Gandalf, helping his landing to be safe and sure of foot. Boromir winced; Gandalf still had his sword drawn and could have easily skewered Legolas’s unprotected torso. 

Before Boromir could decide whether the hobbits could make the jump on their own, a few arrows struck the ground at their feet and whistled over their heads. Goblins were gathering on overlooks and stairs above to rain down missiles on them. Boromir sheathed his sword so he could focus on shielding the hobbits around him with his shield. Aragorn and Legolas returned fire, and Boromir would’ve called it a waste of ammunition but Legolas’s shots stuck true, and Aragorn’s fire provided cover as the goblins ducked and hid away. 

Without thinking about it, Boromir grabbed Merry and Pippin, screaming for them to hang on by name as he jumped across during the lull. As he pushed off from the stairs, he heard it crack under his weight combined with the hobbits he had lifted from their feet. He felt immense regret as he could feel it crumbling away as he flew through the air. He should’ve grabbed Frodo - the ringbearer was the only one who truly needed to make it out of this catacomb. He had let his own attachments blind him once more to the true goal of the mission. He was still shaming himself as Legolas caught hold of him as well, and barely noticed as the elf’s hands steadied his hips, making sure he kept his footing. He set Merry and Pippin down and turned to look at the widened gap. It was now almost five feet across. Not totally impassable, and he sighed with relief. The stairs were wide enough for two to stand abreast, so he and Legolas kept the front line to catch those who jumped next. 

Aragorn picked up Samwise by grabbing hold of his clothes from the back and swung him forward. Sam flew across the gap, mouth agape with surprise. Boromir caught him, bracing himself for the hobbit’s weight, which was always more than expected. Samwise was murmuring his thanks incessantly, and when Boromir set him on the ground behind him, the hobbit sunk to the floor; apparently heights and drops did not agree with the gardener. Boromir wished Aragorn would throw Frodo next, but Aragorn turned towards the dwarf. He reached out to grab the dwarf to toss, but Gimli protested. 

“No one tosses a dwarf!” He claimed, then turned and pumped his arms a few times before jumping. He landed clumsily and teetered on the edge of the stairs, arms akimbo as he fell back. Boromir wasn’t close enough to help him, but Legolas turned from exchanging a volley with the enemy. His hand shot out and grabbed Gimli by the beard. 

The dwarf cried out in pain, and Boromir sympathized with him, but didn’t have time for any emotion beyond a brief gratefulness for Legolas pulling yet another fellowship member from the brink of falling to their death because the stairs under Aragorn and Frodo were cracking yet again. Aragorn tossed Frodo to safety as the stairs crumbled beneath him and Boromir’s stomach jumped to his throat as he watched the stone fall out from under Aragorn’s feet. He wanted to turn away but was frozen in his horror. 

Aragorn did a quick step to the right, pushing off of stairs that were falling and managed somehow to throw himself to the remaining stairs. He hung half over the abyss for a moment but climbed to safety. Boromir felt the panic that was building in his body escape. The insides of his cheeks were bleeding from where he had bit them, and his fingernails hurt from all the pressure that they were crushed under as he unballed his fists. Aragorn and Frodo were safe, but the gap was unpassable, even for one as athletic as Aragorn. 

Boromir looked on in horror; there was nothing he could do to bridge the gap that was now ten or twelve feet across. Even with the slope of the stairs, there was no way a human could make that leap; one would need wings. Which reminded Boromir of the winged beast that was making its way towards them. As if on cue, the creature roared, the fires seeming to shine through new cracks in the stone ceiling above the stairs, the rock fracturing and crashing down.

One of the chunks of rock crashed onto the stairs about eight feet behind Aragorn and Frodo, crushing the stairwell behind them. Even if there wasn’t a giant flaming demon behind them, they couldn’t go back even if they wanted to. Luckily, they were on a pillar traveling deep into the darkness below, so they didn’t have to worry about the stairs crumbling under them any more. Boromir began thinking of ways they could get Aragorn and Frodo across. Perhaps they could tie a rope off somewhere and toss the other end to Aragorn. He could swing across the gap while holding Frodo. Then Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir could pull them to safety. As he was examining his plan for unforeseen dangers they could guard against, he noticed that the pillar supporting Aragorn and Frodo was crumbling, swaying from the weight, the damage, the age. 

“Aragorn!” Boromir cried out; he could not help himself. He had imagined Aragorn falling to his death enough for one day and he could not see it happen for real. Aragorn either did not hear him or did not have time to acknowledge Boromir’s concern. Boromir could see the thoughts churning behind Aragorn’s eyes. Perhaps he had a plan. And then Aragorn placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder, guiding him gently to lean to the side or forward, finding a tedious balance. Boromir felt himself leaning in time with Aragorn, as if that would help him somehow, but he was not alone in doing so; he could feel Legolas’s hand on his arm, supporting both of them as they leaned in the same directions.

The pillar leaned forward, still precarious in it’s descent. Boromir swallowed nervously, desperate to make eye contact with Aragorn without distracting the ranger. He needed reassurance that Aragorn was going to make it. Was it too much to ask that just this once, everyone survived the enemy’s onslaught? Was Boromir too greedy in this ask? As the pillar pitched forward at a steady pace, Boromir outstretched his arms, ready to catch Frodo should their luck hold. Boromir was too greedy; this wasn’t about him and yet here he was, moralizing that this pain was his alone to bear, like he had the monopoly on suffering. The pillar still fell forward. 

It crashed into the stairs under Boromir’s feet. He could feel the shudder rattle him and the pillar underneath down into the depths. Merry and Pippin behind him were thrown from their feet but stayed on the stairs. Boromir caught Frodo, wrapping the hobbit in a tight hug as he held his footing. Next to him, Legolas had caught Aragorn, steadying the ranger as the fallen pillar scraped away and fell into the darkness below. Aragorn didn’t give it a second glance as he nodded his thanks to Legolas, but Boromir watched it fall, his stomach finally taking the cue to drop from his throat. That could have been the end of everything. Frodo, the one he swore to protect on pain of death, gone. Aragorn gone, the work put into growing closer to the ranger a total waste. Both of Boromir’s purposes gone in a flash.

And the ring. How had he forgotten the ring, his actual purpose here? He was sworn to protect Frodo because Frodo carried the ring. His proximity to Aragorn really had nothing to do with his true job and should’ve been the least important thing on his mind. And yet. In this moment of peril, all he could think of was the fear in both Aragorn and Frodo’s eyes, the way Aragorn had placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder and set his jaw, the fear fading as he quickly worked out a plan that saved the ringbearer. When compared to Boromir’s base feelings, the selflessness that Aragorn had shown in putting away his own fear to protect Frodo proved the ranger to be the more honorable man. 

Gandalf gestured for the fellowship to move. As more of the ceiling crashed down, Aragorn led the charge down the rest of the stairs. The hobbits followed behind, and Boromir matched the pace behind them. He could not let his pining get the better of him again. He needed to match Aragorn’s control, exceed it even. 

The stair gave way to a brief entry and they were again in an entryway of sorts. To their right was a set of stairs that were wreathed in flames, leading up to a grand entrance that would avoid the dangerous stairs the fellowship had just trespassed upon. To their left was the small bridge they had been making their way towards. Boromir thought it would have been wider, but it really was just wide enough for them to pass single-file over. Boromir did not want to go over that bridge, but the flames licking at his heels convinced him to at least try. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gandalf pause and turned to look over his shoulder at what had frozen the old man in his tracks. A shadow rippled across the flame, and for a moment Boromir passed it off as a trick of the fire, but then the shadow moved forward. A set of horns loomed, followed by a set of glowing eyes and a serpentine neck made of darkness and fire loomed twenty feet off the floor. The monster opened its mouth and roared. The fire that shot out was so bright and hot that Boromir felt his skin searing. 

“Gandalf!” He screamed, pulling the wizard out of his trance. Gandalf turned and began to follow, the rest of the fellowship once again moving in unity. 

Aragorn crossed the bridge first. He held out a hand to keep anyone from following him, as if he wanted to test that the stone would hold up, but there was no time. Boromir glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Frodo was right behind him, and then followed hot on Aragorn’s heels. The bridge seemed too thin in the middle and if you looked even a degree to the left or the right, all you could see was the empty darkness below. Perhaps this darkness would’ve once been welcoming when there were dwarves to fill the void with song and work and merriment, but now it was silent, lonely. 

Aragorn made it safely to the other side and stepped left before pivoting around to motion the rest of the fellowship to come, but Boromir was right behind him. Aragorn grunted, frustrated, but Boromir just windmilled his arms to gesture to the creature hot on their heels, and he saw the terror that bubbled up as Aragorn saw the balrog for the first time. Boromir did not judge Aragorn for his fear, and Boromir was not arrogant enough to think himself immune to this fear. He felt it often, and found the best course of action was to temper his response to it. He could let it freeze him in place, or he could use the energy to react appropriately. Most occasions, he would let his fear fuel him in battle, but on this occasion, the only thing he could do was run. There was a stairwell to his right that circled around, the only exit. It must lead outside. So Boromir continued towards it, turning to jog backwards so he could make sure everyone followed. It would be just like Aragorn to think he could buy them more time when the exit was literally right here. 

The hobbits had made it across the bridge with Gimli hot on their heels. Legolas was halfway across, Aragorn was moving towards the exit, and Gandalf had just made it to the stone arch that bridged the chasm. They would all make it. This once, everyone would live. He turned back to lead the way up the stairs. They would all make it.

“Gandalf!” Frodo’s scream pierced the air, the terror in it curdling the jubilee Boromir felt. Time seemed to slow and Boromir’s limbs seemed cast in lead as he turned back. Gandalf had spun about halfway across the bridge and was challenging the balrog, sword and staff raised. Boromir cursed as Aragorn leaped forward as if to assist Gandalf, but was pushed back by the heat that, even at this distance, made sweat pour from Boromir’s brow. Over the roar of the flames rippling through the demon, Boromir could barely hear Gandalf’s voice. It was deep and dark like the night sky, and carried with it the scent of cool iron and sweet smoke from a cooking fire. It briefly washed away the acrid fumes peeling off the balrog, but the creature grew incensed as Gandalf continued to speak magic. 

The creature doubled in size as the flames leapt and grew, the smell of sulfur boiling over Boromir and making him gag. The creature grew a sword in its hand, the iron glowing red hot from the fires that smelt it in a matter of seconds. The blade was at least 8 feet long, and it was made of pure fire. There was no way Gandalf’s blade, even tested as it was, could stand up to a blade made of flame. As the creature’s blade crashed down, a bright flash of light shot out, momentarily blinding Boromir. For a moment, he could have sworn there was an orb of light surrounding Gandalf, protecting him from the flames that danced around it before both the flames and the light went out. The creature had stepped back as if pushed, and Gandalf was still standing. Gandalf had protected himself from the first blow, but Boromir did not believe in his heart that Gandalf could win against such a creature. If all you have is defense, you must be sure that your advantage does not give out before the enemy’s offense is spent, and Boromir could not believe that a demon of flame would tire before the wizened man with only a sword and a wooden staff. 

“You shall not pass.” Gandalf’s voice rang out now as if carried on the heat of the enemy’s fire and it felt stronger than the foundations of Minas Tirith. Gandalf pounded his staff on the bridge, the crack born of magic rather than the splintering of wood against stone. Perhaps Boromir had underestimated Gandalf again. Maybe Gandalf had a spell that would ward against the demon, keeping it behind a wall that the beast couldn’t force its way through. 

The monster stepped forward and Boromir could hear stone cracking, the thin bridge falling away from underneath the creature. Boromir felt his jaw go slack. Gandalf had done it, he had saved the day, saved them all. Thanks to him, they would all make it! Boromir spared a glance across the way where swarms of goblins were beginning to come out from their hiding places, the large threat seemingly gone for the moment. There wasn’t much they could do, though, so Boromir didn’t need to worry about them. Gandalf turned to rejoin the fellowship.

A whip cracked, splitting the air and drawing everyone’s attention. A belt made of fire wrapped around Gandalf’s leg, pulling the old man off balance and into the abyss. Boromir looked on in horror as the graybeard scrambled at the edge of the cracked bridge, his thin fingers scrambling for purchase as he hung over the void.

Frodo screamed and reflexively, Boromir’s arm shot out and caught the hobbit, pulling him back before he put himself in danger. The bridge was unstable, but perhaps if Legolas was to get on his stomach and crawl out enough to throw a rope to Gandalf…

Gandalf looked over to Frodo, who was kicking and screaming in Boromir’s arms. He looked so small and grandfatherly, his face a mix of sadness and bittersweet fondness. 

“Fly, you fools.” The wizard was whispering, but it had to be a trick of magic that made his voice fill their ears at such a distance. Boromir thought he caught a half smile of encouragement under the beard, the wizard’s tearful eyes shadowed by his bushy eyebrows. And then he let go. The last glimpse of Gandalf that Boromir caught was of the wizard falling into the void.

Weeping, Sam, Merry, and Pippin followed Legolas and Gimli up the stairs and out into the open. Boromir turned to follow, carrying Frodo who was still screaming Gandalf’s name and fighting Boromir. Boromir cradled the hobbit’s head as he dodged two arrows fired halfheartedly at them by the goblins gathering on the other side of the chasm. Aragorn stood still, seemingly frozen by the shock. 

Boromir cried out to him, wrestling to keep his grip on the hobbit. Boromir couldn’t lose Aragorn now, not after this. Aragorn looked over, his shoulder’s slack, the very picture of a man who had given up. They locked eyes and Boromir poured all of the resolve and affection he could spare into his gaze, hoping Aragorn would absorb at least some of it. He couldn’t stay here.

The second “Aragorn” to leave Boromir’s throat was less scared. It was hoarse and tired and needy, but it pulled on the strength created by desperation. As he turned to run up the stairs, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Aragorn was spurned into motion. He batted away an arrow as it made a lazy arc towards his thigh and followed hot on Boromir’s heels, only turning once to look back at the broken bridge to see if there was anything he could do. 

Once outside, Boromir felt the cold sun raining it’s sharp, white light down on them. He was blinded for a moment, and all he could see were blotchy purple and blue sunspots everywhere. At some point he dropped Frodo as they stumbled their way towards the rest of the fellowship. Boromir was not prepared for all the sensations of the outside world. He had grown accustomed to the dark, still quiet of the mines. Now the cold breeze whistled in his ears and cut through his clothes. The sun blinded him. It was too much. This whole thing was just too much. His heart felt heavy and his chest hurt, each pump sending a dull throbbing pain through his body. He hadn’t expected the loss of Gandalf to feel like this. 

Boromir blinked once and was back amongst the cold, white halls of the upper level of Minas Tirith. He was young, mayhaps twelve or so, sitting with a book of lessons outside, a crisp apple in his other hand. He was studying, or at least trying to study, because Mithradir was in a foul mood today and Boromir was not about to spend the entire evening of such a nice Spring day shut in his room without dinner for mistakes made on a history recitation. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of movement between the white pillars and the leafless branches of several trees within this courtyard. He stopped chewing and heard the familiar sniffles of one younger brother who cried too much for a boy of his age. Boromir set the book down, open pages on the cold stone wall he had been sitting on, and made his way over to where Faramir was hiding behind a tree. As he rounded the space, Faramir turned to run but Boromir knew the game Faramir was playing. He reached out and grabbed the back of Faramir’s shirt, jerking the small eight year old off his feet.

“Hey kid, why are you crying this time?”

Still being held off the ground, Faramir dangled helplessly and scrubbed at his tear-streaked face with a dirty sleeve. “Mirthrandir yelled at me.”

“And what did you do this time, smarty pants?”  
“I didn’t do anything!” Faramir yelled, indignantly. Boromir could feel the ache in his arm from holding up the small kid for so long, but Faramir finally gave in. “I was using his pipe for an inkwell because I broke mine.”

Boromir laughed, dropping Faramir to his feet so he could double over in mirth. Faramir scuffed the toe of his shoe on the uneven stone path, waiting for Boromir to stop laughing, but as his older brother continued to laugh at his expense, Faramir grew mad. He beat both of his fists against Boromir’s side, the pathetic hits not enough to cause pain even as they struck against Boromir’s ribcage. “Stop laughing at me! He’s really mad this time, Boromir.”

Boromir finally straightened up, trying to keep a smile off his face but failing. “You know how Gandalf loves his pipeweed. What possessed you to do that?”

“I don’t know. I needed an inkwell and it was the right size and you know father hates when anyone smokes around him.”

A set of angry footsteps was parading through the courtyard, coming their way. It wasn’t firm enough to be their father’s footsteps, so Boromir wasn’t surprised when Gandalf turned the corner, looking around him wildly before he caught sight of the two children and marched over to them. He opened his mouth to bellow something, but before he could, Boromir shoved Faramir behind him and puffed out his chest. He was still much shorter than Gandalf, but the wizard was an old man, and Boromir wasn’t scared of him. He had stood against much larger bullies.

“Don’t you ever get tired picking on people so much smaller than you, Mithrandir?”

Mithrandir puffed his cheeks out in anger, sputtered as he was thrown off of whatever lecture he had planned. “What did you say, boy?”

“I said, it’s so pathetic that you are picking on Faramir and making him cry. He’s so pitiful even the bullies of the White Tower ignore him.”

“Hey!” A small voice from behind Boromir complained, but Boromir ignored him.

“He’s had it really tough recently and he didn’t want to make father angry again so soon after the last outburst. Give him a break, Mithrandir. Please. If you want to punish anyone, punish me in his stead.”

Boromir had kept the wizard’s gaze through his entire tirade, and he jutted out his chin a bit more, determined to be defiant until the end. Mithrandir’s bright blue eyes twinkled as he looked down on the two boys, too dirty and unkempt for their station, scrappy and resolved to look after each other. The wizard smiled, all wrath seeming to melt out of his visage. 

“I will not punish either of you, Steward’s son. At least, not in the normal sense. We will sit here on this wall and you will both recite your history lessons and then you will talk with an old man until my bones grow cold and we go inside for some warmed cider. That should be punishment enough.”

The cold light of early spring refracted off the clear stone on the wizard’s staff and blinded young Boromir. When he could finally see clearly again, he was back on the other side of the Misty Mountains range with the fellowship and Gandalf was gone, lost to the darkness of Moria. He felt Gimli at his side, weeping. The dwarf leaned into him for support and Boromir wrapped an arm around Gimli, holding the dwarf tight as he swayed and almost fell. The thick metal of Gimli’s helmet bit into Boromir’s arm, but Boromir felt only pressure, not the pain he knew he should be feeling. Still, he held Gimli close, quietly shushing the dwarf as he continued to whimper that it was his fault that they went through Moria. The bitter lump in Boromir’s throat reminded him that it was not just the dwarf who had insisted on taking the path through the mines.

He heard a set of footsteps jogging behind him and turned to watch Aragorn catching up. The memory that had just pierced his heart had taken but seconds, and if he were given the chance, he would be able to think up several other memories centered on Gandalf that could consume him with grief. Boromir helped Gimli sit down softly, trying to give Gimli space and time to grieve. 

Boromir felt his years of experience kick in, felt himself running on autopilot. He pulled out his waterskin and handed it to Gimli. Everyone needed to rehydrate and rest. They needed to focus on their breathing, let their feelings fill them and then wash away with the tears. They would feel empty, physically and emotionally. They would be tired from running, fighting, crying. They would need to rehydrate, gather their spirits, and then they would be able to figure out together what the best plan would be moving forward. Together, they could determine the safest path, find a place to hide and recalibrate after losing their leader.

Aragorn’s voice rang out, sharp and clear. It had an edge to it, not of the sad portion of grief, but of the angry part. “Legolas, get them up!”

Boromir whipped around, meeting the elf’s confused gaze. Legolas had also been lost to his own grief, the sorrow in his eyes so deep that Boromir wondered how long Legolas and Gandalf had known each other. Legolas looked so lost, frozen with despair and indecision. Boromir was again reminded of Faramir. The urge to protect the graceful and yet lanky elf was overwhelming. Boromir patted Gimli on the back to reassure him that Boromir was still beside him as he stood and confronted Aragorn.

“Look at them, Aragorn. Give them a moment, please.” Boromir’s voice cracked at the last request, his own grief spilling over. It wasn’t just Gandalf that Boromir grieved, it was all the soldiers he had lost before, men he had known for years or men he had met moments before they died in his arms, or had never met and yet still mourned. The pain of knowing that someone else had died so that you might live to continue the fight, the guilt that came with living while someone so close to you died in front of you, it never really went away. It just hid and grew until it was strong and big enough to wash over you all over again, trying to drown and destroy you. Boromir couldn’t let it get a foothold in today. Not now.

Aragorn glared back at him, but his anger seemed tempered as he actually took in his companions scattered around the rocky terrain, holding each other and wailing or crying in solitude. Aragorn kept his voice firm, but it lacked the edge that cut at the already fragile fellowship. “We cannot stay here. By nightfall, these hills will be swarming with orcs. We must get to the woods of Lorien before then.”

The two men stood there, eyes locked, reading far more into the words they exchanged than would otherwise be warranted. Boromir knew in that moment that if he wanted to sway the fellowship with his experience and abilities as a leader, he would need to challenge Aragorn here. Boromir knew Aragorn was not simply looking out for the group, he was doing as Gandalf had commanded in the mines, that Aragorn be the one to lead them on. He should be angry, bitter towards this man who came from a broken lineage claiming the role that Boromir had spent his whole life training to fill. What had Aragorn been doing while Boromir held the line against Mordor? Hunting and feasting with Lord Elrond’s sons? Or while Boromir refused to give into his desires so that he might continue to lead his men from a position of strength, what had Aragorn been doing besides wooing the lady Arwen? 

And yet, there was no bitterness within Boromir towards Aragorn. Until this moment, Aragorn had been torn, auguishing between the role he knew he should take on and the role he wanted to play. He was gruff and angry, but with experience, he could be more of a leader than Boromir ever could. 

So Boromir did the unthinkable. He knew if his father found out, he would lash Boromir until he was a broken man, would disown and shame him for all to see. Boromir knew all this and yet still did it. He bowed his head to the ranger. He would follow Aragorn until Aragorn himself banished him from his side. So when Aragorn said to get everyone on their feet and in marching order, Boromir helped Gimli to stand and then lifted Merry and Pippin to their feet, patting them on the shoulder and telling them to put this grief behind them long enough to finish this march. And when Aragorn said to run, Boromir grit his teeth and ran. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn steps up as leader, and Boromir wrestles with the conflicting bitterness and pride he feels. The woods of Lothlorien promise safety, but will the fellowship find rest there, or only more conflict?

Aragorn had said to run, so Boromir ran. Each thudding footfall made his right shoulder throb in pain, each stab exacerbating the tightness in his chest. They ran for two hours, and Boromir could taste blood in his mouth from where he had been biting the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the pain in his shoulder.

Aragorn pulled away from the group, running faster than the hobbits or Gimli could reasonably be expected to travel. Trying to get a vantage point for their path, he ran to the top of a grassy knoll. He trotted back to the bottom of the hill, a smile twisting on his face as the rest of the ragtag fellowship caught up. 

“The edge of Lothlorien is within sight. If we continue at this pace, we can reach the forest by mid-afternoon.”

He turned to leave and Boromir reflexively reached out with his dominant arm to grab him. As his hand brushed Aragorn’s sleeve, he winced in pain, his arm falling limp against his side. Aragorn turned back, his face a mask of confusion at the gentle touch. The confusion turned into concern when he realized Boromir was holding his right elbow in his left hand. Boromir didn’t want pity, he just wanted a moment to rest.

“Perhaps, if we are going to get there so far ahead of the encroaching darkness, might we pause here for even ten minutes that we might catch our breath, perhaps drink some water, tend to wounds?”

At the word “wounds”, Samwise looked up from where he was squatting and stretching. “Wounds? Mr. Frodo, is your chest giving you a problem?” 

Boromir swore to himself. He forgot that Frodo had been almost skewered. The mail had protected him from fatal injuries, but he was probably bruised and sore. Frodo rubbed his chest absentmindedly. “No Sam, I’m fine. But a moment to rest would be nice, if we could spare it, Aragorn.”

Even Gimli chimed in. “Dwarves are good for sprinting, lad. If you give me even five minutes, I will be able to outrun you the rest of the way to the elven wood, though it might not be my first choice of location for a restful reprieve.”

Aragorn looked them over and then looked over his shoulder, almost wistfully. He turned back to the group, seeming to take in their exhaustion for the first time since they left the mines. “Fifteen minutes, but we can spare no more than that. Legolas, Gimli, find something quick and light to eat. Merry, Pippin, fetch fresh water from that stream. Mind that it is fresh. Sam, check Frodo’s chest and see if it needs a compress or a bandage. Boromir, might I speak with you privately for a moment?”

Noticing the slight smile on Legolas’s lips, Boromir exhaled forcefully to clear his body of frustration before following Aragorn out of earshot of the rest of the group. Aragorn turned sharply on him, his whispered words full of anger, though it was not the anger Boromir had been expecting. At first.

“You ran this whole way injured, without saying a word. You are so proud and stoic, but I didn’t expect even this from you. Are you bleeding? Did you leave a trail?”

And there it was. Aragorn was angry with Boromir, not angry at himself for not noticing Boromir’s pain. Of course Aragorn’s arrogance wouldn’t let him be angry at himself for setting such a grueling path without checking in on the other party members. 

Boromir forced his words through gritted teeth. “I did not leave a trail; even I know that would be a bad idea. Give me some credit, Aragorn. If I was bleeding out, I’m sure I would’ve stopped to bandage it by now.”

Aragorn exhaled, his body dropping the tension held in his shoulders. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that you would endanger us on purpose.”

Boromir’s barking laugh drew Legolas’s attention, but the elf had been watching from the corner of his eyes anyways. “Imply? There was no implication there, Aragorn. You asked in plain language if I was stupid enough to knowingly leave a trail that we could easily be tracked by.”

Aragorn seemed to ignore Boromir’s unasked question. Instead, he reached out, hand pausing inches from touching Boromir’s injured arm. “Is it fractured?”

Boromir flexed his hand, testing the pain. “No, it’s my shoulder. Probably dislocated. It happens sometimes, an old shield injury.”

“Shield injury? I thought that was your sword hand.”

“It wasn’t my shield. I tripped in battle and a savvy orc took the opportunity to crush my shoulder with his shield. It’s also possible he was going for my head and just had bad aim.” 

Aragorn looked down at his hand, the back at Boromir’s shoulder. “May I?”

Boromir shrugged, then winced again. Irmo damnit, he needed to pay attention to what he was doing with his body. Aragorn stepped forward, gently putting pressure on Boromir’s arm. He moved his hand up and down Boromir’s upper arm, testing different spots to confirm that it was indeed Boromir’s shoulder and that it was dislocated, not just sprained. When Aragorn put two fingers in the shoulder joint, proving the joint was dislocated, Boromir about jumped out of his skin. He yelped and tried to jerk away from Aragorn’s grip, making the pain worse. It rolled over Boromir in waves, along with nausea and cold sweats that made Boromir feel clammy and ill. 

Aragorn’s left hand was holding Boromir’s arm in place as he was testing the injury, and it now sat softly on his shoulder while Aragorn’s right hand rested flat on Boromir’s chest. Boromir tried to convince himself that his racing heart rate was because of the pain, and it probably partly was. 

Their eyes met, Aragorn’s steely blue gaze seeming to hold Boromir in place. “We should set it before we move on.”

“Yeah, you and what healer?” Boromir joked, the smile leaving his face as Aragorn held his gaze, his face set in a manner that brooked no questions. 

Boromir felt the fear tighten in his chest even as he tried to breathe deeply to force it out. “You can’t be serious, Aragorn. Have you ever done this before?”

Aragorn nodded. “It’s been a few years, but I’ve done my fair share of wilderness medicine. I won’t touch you without your permission, but if we don’t set it, the pain will continue to build as we travel. We can’t afford to go much slower as is, as much as I’d like to. For your sake.”

The last three words were a whisper, the ghost of emotions hidden in Aragorn’s deep blue eyes. Boromir closed his eyes and worked on regulating his breathing. “If we are going to do it, we should do it now so I can rest for a few minutes before we continue on our way.”

When Boromir opened his eyes, Aragorn nodded at him. 

“Lay down and slowly stretch out your arm so it’s extended out from your body like so.” Aragorn demonstrated while standing. 

A drop of cold sweat ran down Boromir’s back, but he did as he was told. He almost let out a cry of pain as he extended his arm, and had to resort to using his left hand to guide his right arm until it was outstretched like Aragorn had requested. Aragorn then sat, one leg on either side of Boromir’s outstretched arm. Aragorn reached out to gently wipe the sweat away from Boromir’s forehead. 

“This will hurt, but it will work, I promise. Once I finish, much of the pain will dissipate. Are you ready?”

Boromir set his jaw so that he did not accidentally bite his tongue. He managed to grit out between clenched teeth, “Ready. Don’t stop until it’s set.” 

Aragorn began to pull slowly, keeping Boromir’s arm level with his body. The pain grew as Aragorn pulled, spiking to levels that made Boromir want to throw up. He could hear himself whispering, begging Aragorn to stop, but still Aragorn pulled, the bastard. There was a final spike of pain that made Boromir cry out. The wordless yelp of suffering was followed by a loud pop, then the pain subsided to a dull ache. 

Boromir felt like he was coming to; while the pain hadn’t been enough to make him pass out, he certainly hadn’t been lucid for the past moment or two. He could hear shouting. Merry and Pippin were running towards them, yelling something. As his senses continued to come into focus, he could hear them berating himself and Aragorn.

“Really, we stop for a minute and you humans have to get yourselves off-” Pippin’s voice faltered as he rounded Aragorn’s seated form to find Boromir laying flat on his back, tears streaming down his face. The small creature turned to Merry, confusion written all over his face. “What am I looking at here, Merry?”

“Aragorn was fixing my dislocated shoulder.” Boromir rasped, surprised at how dry his throat was. 

Merry bonked Pip on the head with the bottom of his fist. “You idiot. I told you they weren’t having fun over here.”

Boromir could hear Aragorn rolling his eyes with frustration. “Now that you two are here, could you fetch my bag? I have some cloth that we can use to fashion a sling for Boromir.”

Merry elbowed Pippin in the ribs, seeming to knock him out of whatever daze he was in. The hobbits exchanged glances before running back to where Aragorn had dropped his pack before he pulled Boromir aside. 

After they left, Aragorn’s features softened. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Boromir.”

Boromir still hadn’t moved his arm, relocated as it was. He was actually enjoying the dull ache. It meant the sharp pain was gone, and he wasn’t going to risk bringing it back. “You did what you had to do, Aragorn. Sometimes we must wound to heal. You were right, I am already better off.”

Aragorn’s voice was a whisper. “I meant, I’m sorry I did not notice you were in pain. We ran all this way and I didn’t notice.”

Boromir wanted to reach out and hold Aragorn but he wasn’t foolish enough to think this was the time or place. “You were doing as Gandalf asked and leading the group. If it had been unbearable, I would’ve spoken up earlier.”

Aragorn’s eyes seemed to grow darker as his brow furrowed at the word “leading.” Then Merry and Pippin were back, dragging Aragorn’s pack on the ground between them. Aragorn looked ready to snap at them but he held his reaction in check. “Did you get the fresh water? If so, take Boromir’s waterskin and fill it for him, please.”

Pippin eagerly took the almost empty pouch from where it was fastened on Boromir’s belt and skipped back to the leather bucket they unfolded to use for gathering water. Merry stayed behind. 

“Would you like help with the sling, Strider?”

Boromir wanted Aragorn to disagree, but the dark featured man simply nodded as he took out several rolls of cloth. 

“Since we still need to travel quickly, I think we should bandage the arm to the chest for better support. Once we are in the forest, we can slow down a bit and then maybe a more traditional sling might be more appropriate.”

Tears stung behind Boromir’s eyes. He hated being talked about like he wasn’t here. He blinked, trying to keep the tears unshed, and that’s when he noticed Aragorn was looking at him expectantly. Boromir’s mind was blank. What did Aragorn want from him?

“I said, does that suit you, Steward’s son?”

Boromir blinked twice. “Yes, that’s acceptable.”

There was a little smirk underneath Aragorn’s gruff front and Boromir tried to ignore it. Aragorn helped Boromir sit and then stand up, holding his right arm stable the whole time. Once he confirmed Boromir was able to stand on his own, Aragorn had Boromir hold his right elbow with his left hand, his right forearm flat against his stomach. Once it was in position, Aragorn began winding the thin strip of cloth first across Boromir’s chest, binding his upper arm tight to his body without cutting off the circulation. Merry held the roll of cloth, unwinding it as Aragorn needed. Several times, Boromir could feel Aragorn trace his hand across Boromir’s back, brush against his left arm as he passed the roll between arm and torso, or fiddle with the cloth against Boromir’s chest, making sure it laid flat. 

When standing in front of him, Aragorn mostly kept his eyes downturned but every now and again he would look up, catching Boromir’s eye. His face was slightly flushed; Boromir didn’t know if his own flushed face was in response to Aragorn’s warm embarrassment or from the pain. He’d take the latter for an excuse if asked. Boromir shook his head slightly. Who was going to ask such a question anyways. They were running for their lives; no one would care what glances he exchanged with Aragorn. 

After his upper arm was secured, Aragorn moved to winding the cloth across Boromir’s body to secure his forearm where it was resting against his gut. Boromir wasn’t sure what to do with his left hand. Any way he held it seemed to get it in Aragorn’s way but Aragorn didn’t complain. While this was in no way sensual, there was an intimacy to the way that Aragorn wove the fabric around Boromir, a tenderness to the motions meant to protect Boromir from further harm. Boromir kept himself from wondering what it would be like to be bound like this in a romantic setting. Instead, he focused on keeping his expression neutral as the rest of the fellowship began to meander over. 

Legolas and Gimli walked over together, and Boromir noted that the tear-streaked ash had been washed from Gimli’s face. They were followed by Sam and Frodo, Sam insisting that Frodo lean on Sam’s arm despite Frodo’s protests that he wasn’t injured. 

“Bruised from collarbone to shoulder, he is!” Sam announced to no one in particular. Pippin, who was hot on Sam’s heels, bumped into Sam when he stopped, sloshing water from the leather pail.

“Steady on!” Pippin chided before turning to Aragorn and Boromir. “I filled both your water skins. What should I do with the extra water?”

Boromir could feel Aragorn seething; when had Pippin lifted Aragorn’s waterskin? Aragorn took a deep breath. “Just dump it out.”

Pippin dumped the water directly on Aragorn’s left foot.

Boromir couldn’t help it. He laughed outright at Aragorn’s grimace, and soon the entire group - excepting Aragorn - was laughing. Legolas hid his chortle behind a thin hand while Merry and Pippin slapped each other on the back and laughed uproariously. Aragorn snatched the leather bucket from Pippin and then placed it upside down on his curly mop of auburn hair. 

“You’ll wear this bucket til we make it to the Woods of Lorien, my small friend. If you complain even once, I’ll…” 

The group just laughed harder, drowning out Aragorn’s attempt at firm discipline. Merry snatched the bucket and put it on his own head before tearing off. He called over his shoulder “Last one into the forest will have to wear the bucket for the rest of the trip!”

Aragorn stood there, mouth agape as the rest of the fellowship took off after Merry, each invigorated by the lighthearted moment of merriment. Boromir placed his left hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “You are doing a good job leading the men, but you need to lessen your grip on them a bit. Use these moments of mirth to bring us together so that further moments of hardship do not tear us apart.”

Making a fist, Boromir tapped Aragorn’s chin lightly in a playful punch before taking off after the rest of the group. Perhaps it was the lightness of the mood, but while His arm still hurt as he ran, it was much less painful. He could bear this a little while longer. 

***

The woods seemed to appear out of nowhere. Perhaps it was the fatigue or the grief or the pain in his shoulder, but Boromir felt uneasy as they passed over some invisible line into the forest. At first it was just a few rows of trees but quickly the forest became dense, pressing in around them. It was bright, the yellow afternoon sun bouncing off of the golden falling leaves. It was warm and hazy and Boromir just wanted to lay down in the leafy undergrowth and sleep. 

Boromir jolted upright. Was the forest trying to lull him into a false sense of security? Just because they passed the border didn’t mean they were safe. Boromir began to count heads, making sure they did not lose anyone to the siren call of these enchanted woods. They were walking in a new order, with Aragorn in the lead and Boromir at the back of the group. In the middle of the line, Gimli was telling the hobbits about some golden elven sorceress, grown from the wood of the oldest tree in the forest and brought to life before the world began in earnest. 

Boromir could hear the dwarf boasting about how he would be immune to her charms. The dwarf growled gruffly. “There’s no way her elven wardens could sneak up upon us, for I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox!”

As the last words left Gimli’s lips, several bows trained upon the hobbits and the dwarf. Boromir rushed to draw his sword with his left hand, but an arrow pushed into his wounded arm, and a second was at his left breast before the sword could clear it’s sheath. Legolas had been the only one quick enough to draw on their new foe, but he could not decide which member of the fellowship to protect. His arrow danced from target to target and Boromir wanted to scream. Of course the one to protect was Frodo. Why did no one else seem to comprehend that the only one who needed to survive was the ringbearer? Unless the others were simply waiting for their moment to take up the ring…

Boromir’s attention was drawn away from that hateful thought as a broad shouldered elf stepped forward. This elf seemed to be a captain or martial of sorts. 

“The dwarf boasts so loudly, we could’ve shot him in the dead of night.”

The elf looked them over, appraising them. Boromir felt his cheeks grow red from shame. He did not want his last thoughts to be of distrust and anger towards his traveling companions. The elf did not seem to notice or care.

“Eight companions so unlike in bearing and likeness. What business has an elf, a dwarf, four halflings, and two men in the woods of Lothlorien?”

Boromir prayed to whatever power would hear him that Aragorn did not give away their true purpose. 

“We must speak with the Lord and Lady of the wood. We are sent here on a purpose from Lord Elrond and we seek their wisdom and protection.”

Aragorn had some sense, then.

The elf looked Aragorn up and down, but then a scout materialized beside him, whispering some news in his ear. The elf’s face darkened. “It is not safe to speak here. We will travel further into the forest before taking our rest and discussing your business here.”

The arrows moved away from the fellowship members, but Boromir noted that they stayed nocked in their bowstrings. With his bad arm, he would not be able to draw before being filled with arrows. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. 

As they walked, Boromir noted that Legolas and Aragorn kept to themselves. Gimli grumbled a bit, and tried to get Aragorn’s attention with whispered articulations and hand signals, but gave up when he realised that Aragorn was intentionally ignoring him. He went to grumble to Samwise, but Legolas kicked him in the back of the knee. Boromir felt the scream growing in his throat. Did Gimli understand nothing about the situation they were in? While the arrow greeting had not been pleasant, the fellowship had trespassed on the wood elves' land. And it was a mite more generous than being shot thoughtlessly. Their host was ambivalent towards them at the moment; they did not need to turn the tables to outright hostility before negotiations even began.

Boromir flexed his right hand. He couldn’t feel any numbness, which was a good sign. He hated to admit it but Aragorn had done a satisfactory job setting Boromir’s shoulder. He would need to be gentle for the next few days, so hopefully their host would allow them to stay for a time. He would just be a weight on the fellowship until his arm healed and he could not allow his presence to put them in jeopardy. But he could not abandon his mission, either. If he returned home empty handed, his father would never forgive him.

Boromir’s thoughts churned down that dark path as the group continued to march. The elves led them through the woods until late at night. The sun had set and the woods around them seemed to glow with a strange deep green light. Perhaps it was just the moon shining upon the pale bark and dark foliage, but either way, it unsettled Boromir. Finally, the captain of the elven squadron stopped.

“We have arrived.”

A rope and wood ladder dropped next to the elf as if on cue. Pippin gasped in delight and the rest of the fellowship looked up to see what excited the hobbit so. Through the foliage, Boromir could just make out several platforms that looked like large leaves. If he had not seen the ladder to follow its path, he would not have been able to make out the platforms from the rest of the trees. He looked down at his bandaged arm and grit his teeth. This would be interesting.

One by one the fellowship members were asked to climb the ladder, and between each of them another elf went up. Boromir supposed this was to keep the numbers balanced between the floor and roof of the forest. First the hobbits went up. Merry and Sam complained, at least until Pippin laughed in Merry’s face and scrambled up without complaint and Frodo set a gentle hand on Sam’s face and reassured him that it would be all right. At both of their friend’s behest, Merry and Sam squared their small shoulders and climbed the ladder. Merry only squealed once and Sam muttered to himself the entire climb, but they made it safely. 

After that showing of courage, Legolas climbed up nimbly and Boromir couldn’t decide if it would be worse for Legolas to watch Boromir’s doomed-to-fail attempt to climb with one hand from the ground or from the platform above. Either way, Gimli was required to climb first. The dwarf cursed and tested each rung with distrust, as if the whole thing was some elaborate joke meant to embarrass him. 

Finally it was Boromir’s turn. The elf captain offered to have them send down a sling that they used to lift wounded elves, but Boromir’s pride would not allow him to accept that. He was sure Aragorn was rolling his eyes in the darkness, but he wouldn’t budge. He would climb the ladder same as everyone else. 

The first few rungs were easy. But about half way up, the ladder swung with his exertion, and every time he had to let go with his good hand, he was positive he was going to fall. He could feel Aragorn’s eyes on him from below though, and the thought of Aragorn watching him fail spurred him on. The sweat that was originally beading on his forehead now rolled down his face with this exertion, but finally strong hands reached down and pulled him the last few feet up onto the platform. The same hands guided him to where the rest of the fellowship was standing. The hobbits were arranged together in a huddled group, and Boromir was shoved between Legolas and Gimli in front of them. After a few seconds time, Aragorn climbed gracefully to the platform, followed quickly by the elf captain and the remaining elves from the ground. Aragorn moved to Gimli’s side, but Boromir could see by the dim light of the moon and stars that Aragorn sent a questioning glance his way. Boromir smiled slightly and nodded that he was all right. It would take more than a rope ladder to take him down.

The elf captain had walked up to Legolas and began speaking in Sindarin. It was the elven language Boromir had the least experience with, but that wasn’t saying much. He could translate that the captain had called Legolas by name and was greeting him. He expected Legolas to return the gesture, but Legolas said something in Sindarin about the fellowship instead. Either way, the captain seemed pleased with the response. As Boromir was next in line, he expected the captain would address him next and was trying desperately to pull together what little Sindarin he knew into a humble greeting. But the next words out of the elf’s mouth made a sour pit in Boromir’s stomach.

Aragorn. Dunedain. Even here, amongst elves that Boromir had never met, he was still passed over for Aragorn. He should be grateful for the additional time to pull together a greeting. But it still stung that everywhere they went, he was not recognized. Perhaps Faramir was right. Boromir had spent too much time on the front lines, trying to hold together the fraying edges of his country. He needed to work harder at building relationships with other countries who could offer support and aid against Mordor. Boromir moved to extend his off hand in greeting, hoping the elves would not be offended, but he was cut off by Gimli, speaking in common.

“Speak words we can all understand. I know I am not the only one here who was not taught the words of tree dwellers.”

Boromir could hear Pippin piping up behind them but was cut off as Merry clapped a hand firmly over his cousin’s mouth.

The elven captain sucked a breath in through his teeth, the sharp, quiet whistle demanding attention. “We have not dealt with the dwarves since dark times, and I can see why we have avoided it for so long.”

Boromir wanted to hold Gimli back, but Gimli was to his right and he would have to turn to restrain the dwarf. Boromir worried that such a quick motion on his part - when combined with Gimli’s rudeness - would be interpreted as hostility. Instead, he remained rooted to his spot, begging in his mind for Aragorn or Legolas to take control of the situation.

Instead, Gimli continued. “To that I say-” and then Gimli unleashed dwarvish curses so foul that, even though he did not understand their literal translation, Boromir understood their true meaning.

Aragorn turned to Gimli and punched him in the shoulder. Through his mail, Gimli would feel no more than the pressure of the blow, but it was enough to signal Aragorn’s intent. “That was not polite. You will apologize to our host, Gimli.”

Gimli began to sputter at the thought of having to apologize to a host of elves, but the elf captain’s focus was no longer on Gimli. Instead, he was staring at the hobbits, his focus drilling into Frodo. Could he feel the ring? Could he hear it calling to him, the way it spoke to Boromir when no one else was listening? Boromir shook his head at that thought. He had to be delirious. The ring couldn’t speak. It didn’t communicate with Boromir. It was just a ring. It had some sort of power that drew you to it, made you want to look at it, to touch it, hold it, but it didn’t have vocal cords and windpipes to create sound. This was nonsense, and Boromir knew it.

His attention was pulled away from his own growing dread to the elf captain as he spoke in common again.

“You have brought great evil here, evil that has never before been seen or felt in these woods. You must leave our forest. Immediately.”

The elves began to press in, pushing the fellowship into a group. Aragorn jumped forward in front of the elf captain. “No, please. Speak with me in private and I will make plain to you why you must allow us to pass through.”

The elf captain hesitated, and Aragorn pressed forward again. Boromir could feel the warmth in his chest as he watched Aragorn advocate for them all. Perhaps it was good that the elf had passed over Boromir - Aragorn was much better suited for negotiating with this elf. Boromir’s elvish was too limited to be of much use here. Aragorn whispered a few phrases in Sindarin, and the elf captain relented. He held out a hand to motion back the elves who were ushering the rest of the fellowship towards the edge of the platform. He whispered a few clipped words in elvish, and then grimaced. He translated to common.

“Have them sit while I discuss with Aragorn. Provide water if they wish it.”

Gratefully, Boromir sat where he was motioned to, and he was glad that Frodo sat to one side and Legolas sat to the other. He loved Merry and Pippin, but he did not have the energy to deal with their antics. For a while, he watched over his shoulder where Aragorn argued, impassioned with a vigor that Boromir had not yet seen. It filled him with pride. And envy. He wasn’t surprised. More and more he found himself wishing to monopolize all of Aragorn’s attention. It was better than letting himself grow bitter over his role in the fellowship, even if it was the same bitterness in his throat, just at a different target. 

After a while, Boromir felt a cramp growing in his neck, so he turned back to looking over the rest of the fellowship. Merry and Pippin were entertaining themselves with taking swigs of water and spitting at specific bushes and leaves below. They had roped Samwise in as a judge, and though he complained about it, Boromir could tell that the round hobbit was enjoying himself more than the situation would warrant. 

Gimli was sitting off by himself, stewing. Boromir could tell by the way the dwarf’s hands would raise as if motioning angrily before returning to his lap that he was replaying the argument in his mind, getting out all the things he wished he had said out loud. Boromir felt chagrined - was that how he looked when he replayed past arguments in his head? Legolas was eavesdropped on Aragorn and the elf captain’s whispered elvish conversation, and Boromir was glad of it. At least one other person in the fellowship should know what was being said in their defence. 

That left only Frodo. Boromir turned last to the ringbearer, and was surprised to see him staring into the dark night, tears gleaming bright as they ran down his cheeks. Boromir swallowed the lump in his throat. Of all of them, Frodo seemed the closest to Gandalf, of course he would still be mourning the loss of his friend. If there was one thing Boromir understood, it was the cycle of grief and the pain of losing those closest to you. It was perhaps what Boromir was best at, saying good-bye to friends, and to lovers. To lose those closest to you in battle could sometimes be worse than losing them to illness or old age. In those cases, you could comfort yourself with the lies you took care of them, that they had lived their full potential. But of death in battle, you could only play the senseless loss over again and again in your mind, questioning your decisions and your tactics that put those lost in such dangerous positions. 

Boromir could not let Frodo wade through this alone. It had taken Boromir years to learn how to compartmentalize this type of grief, and he did not know if Frodo would ever be able to get there on his own. Boromir looked over his shoulder to make sure that none of the elves were listening in or close enough to punish him for speaking out of turn. When he decided they were safe enough he leaned closer to Frodo just a hair.

“Gandalf’s death was not in vain, Frodo. It was not meaningless. He would not want you to give up hope in the living, either.”

Frodo met Boromir’s eyes, and he saw how tired Frodo was. Not just from the long marches or from crying. Like Boromir, he carried a weight around his neck that was not physical. But whereas Boromir’s weight was the protection of his people, Frodo had the weight of the world hanging from his small neck. Boromir tried not to stare at where he knew the ring was hidden.

“You bear a heavy burden, Frodo. Do not carry the weight of the dead as well.”

Boromir turned away to give Frodo a moment’s peace, but Frodo’s small voice followed him. 

“Who was he to you? The first person who died because of decisions you made?”

Boromir felt a stab of pain burn through his chest. It had been so long since he had thought of him, had let himself mourn.

“His name was Callonbor. Cal. He was my… a dear friend.”

Frodo’s voice was soft, as if he were trying to keep from scaring away a frightened animal. “How did he die?”

Boromir could feel Legolas’s attention split away from Aragorn towards them, but even if he whispered, the elf would hear him. It felt like he had given up on hiding things from Legolas long ago. “It was the first time I was leading the men of Gondor into battle. In hindsight, I was unready, though I had begged to be put in command.”

Boromir knew this was not the truth, but it was the story he had told himself for so long that it felt like the truth. 

“Cal had just made rank as well, and it was our first conflict together. We had promised to look out for each other, to watch each other’s back. But I let my guard down, and Cal jumped in to save me.” 

Boromir grew silent as he watched the blow coming down. The blow had been meant for Boromir, it should have been him to take it. The worst part was, that blow probably would not have been fatal for Boromir, not at that angle. But Cal always had to play the hero. Again and again the blow fell, and all Boromir could do was watch it. 

A small voice brought him back to the present where there was no fight, no battle. “You couldn’t have done anything to stop it. How old were you when it happened?”

Boromir laughed, his voice hoarse. “Nineteen.” he lied. They had been no more than sixteen when it had happened, he and Cal, but that would look bad on his father’s leadership, even if his father had been in the wrong when it had happened.

Frodo looked appalled. “You were a child!”

Boromir shook his head. “I think we men must age the fastest of all the races. Nineteen is old enough, especially in a country as war-torn as my own.” 

Frodo looked down. “You must think me a child.”

“There is no shame in weeping for those we lose. You never forget them, truly. But you cannot let them hold you back from moving forward, from doing what is right.”

“I don’t know how to do that.” Frodo looked back to Boromir, his eyes full of unshed tears.

“You will, Frodo. You are stronger than you know. Weep now, while we are safe.”

Boromir could feel the hot tears sliding down his own cheeks. He leaned in on his knees, hiding his face with his one good arm, stealing time to compose himself. He looked up only when he heard purposeful footsteps striding towards them. The elf captain.

“You will follow me now.”

Over the elf’s shoulder, Aragorn smiled and nodded. Whatever he had said, it had worked. The elf captain motioned for them to descend the rope ladder. As Gimli was going down, he made eye contact with Boromir. 

“Do we make a run for it, laddie?” He rasped, and Boromir sighed loudly.

“No, Gimli. Climb down and shut up.”

Aragorn snickered behind a hand, and Gimli stammered angrily the whole way down the ladder. Boromir didn’t care. It was time the dwarf acted like an adult and managed his own prejudices quietly. Boromir didn’t have the energy for it any more. Before Boromir could lower himself over the side of the platform to the rope ladder, Aragorn brushed past him and descended. Boromir rolled his eyes to the quiet laughter of the elves around them, and then began the climb down. 

Boromir wasn’t sure how he’d manage, but when he dropped off the side of the platform and found his footing, he was surprised to be face to face with Aragorn, separated only by the rope ladder. He was so surprised, in fact, that he lost his grip and fell back. Aragorn’s strong arm shot out and around Boromir, pulling him back to the rope ladder.

“I was worried you’d fall. You are such a stubborn fool.”

“Better a stubborn fool than an arrogant bastard.” Boromir quipped.

Their eyes met, the confident look in Aragorn’s slate blue eyes warped for a moment by confusion. 

“I’m sorry, Aragorn. I meant nothing personal by it. Thank you for catching me. And for getting us out of this mess.”

“Wait to thank me until you see what kind of mess I get us into.” Aragorn glanced away, playing shy again even though he was the only reason Boromir hadn’t fallen to his death. Well, he had been the one to startle Boromir in the first place, so they’d call it even. Aragorn was careful to hold Boromir steady as they descended, managing between them to not slip or break the ladder as they maneuvered down together. When they reached the ground, Pippin was the first to speak.

“Well, that was intimate!”

“Shut up, Pippin.” Both Aragorn and Boromir spoke at the same time, which just made the rest of the group laugh even more at their expense. 

The elf captain dropped to the ground from several rungs up, silencing the quiet laughter and drawing all attention back to himself.

“You will come with me. It will be a walk of several hours. You will proceed quietly with no complaints. We will arrive before morning light. Now march.”

The energy among the fellowship seemed to drop at the prospect of more marching, but Pippin, who couldn’t read an atmosphere to save his life, saved them.

“You heard the elf-man. March, you lot!”

Boromir noticed as they followed the elf captain that Aragorn’s hand was still protectively on Boromir’s shoulder. He smiled even as he flicked away Legolas who leaned close and tried to shrug suggestively. The fellowship that remained was still together, and that was all that mattered for now.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you are enjoying this story! It's been a while since I've written anything and I'm really enjoying it as well. If you want to listen to the playlist I write this fic to, here's a link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/68xytttw9NeFVuung0vm0O?si=6KAav4vCSgiUFLSoRp0eZw I actually received the best compliment I've ever gotten about a playlist when my roommate told me a particular song choice was "rude" so if the fic gives you feelings, hopefully the playlist will as well.


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